Simple Works: For my Father
by Opheliamlet
Summary: A novelization of Silent Hill 3. Chapter XII finally up: Heather emerges from the subway and is one step closer to home-but she's not out of trouble yet. Far, far from it. Rated M for language and extreme violence. - Abandoned. Go to AO3 for future updates.
1. Prelude

Well, I figured I'd give this a whirl. The game was kinda itching my interest of late, and I couldn't resist the temptation to pick up the pen and start writing about it. It's the first Silent Hill game I played on my own, without seeing someone else play it, so it kind of has a special place in my heart for that reason. Also, I think the story is great - but could be better. Not that I think I'd, personally, be able to make it better, but it'd still be fun to see what I could do with it while maintaining the basic, fundamental aspects of the plot and events.

So, here it is. I don't know how long it'll take me to get through it. A while, I imagine. Lemme know what you think.

* * *

_Simple Works: For my Father._  
By Krist./Shikhee

* * *

__  
**_Prelude_**

I've been having some trouble with sleeping lately. . . the dreaming part, now that's no problem: I dream all the time, whether I can remember it clearly or not, but lately. . . the trouble is how often it happens. That makes me sound narcoleptic or something weird like that, but honestly I can't quite explain it, and I don't think that's what it is. For instance, I don't think narcoleptics wake up not remembering how they got there, or find themselves trapped in one of their dreams.

Don't worry, I'm not crazy. I can tell a dream from reality – once the dream is over, and thank god it does because half the ones I've had aren't exactly light and fluffy. They're not the kind of crap you want to keep down in a dream journal, okay? Not something you'd share with, well, anybody. I wouldn't dare tell any of my friends about this kind of stuff, they'd just think I was nuts – though it is kind of hard to hide it when it happens, when they ask me where I disappeared to and why I look like I've just had the bejeezus scared outta me. How can I even begin to explain it to them? Or to anyone.

I used that line on my dad when he had the last straw of it, of me disappearing, and reappearing, and told me he was taking me to a shrink. It scared him just as badly as it did me, which only made me feel. . . guilty, like I was somehow to blame for it all. I used to be angry about how he'd react, but now I just feel terrible, like I could stop it if I wanted to, but I keep pushing it, testing his patience. And he has a lot of patience with me. I don't know how I'd handle it if my daughter. . .

I didn't see what good a shrink would do, and I told him that. I don't like the idea of them, because to me all it seems like they're interested in is dishing out meds like candy and not caring about the person behind the problems. They're just looking for an increase in their paycheck. I couldn't stand the idea of being some sick investment for one of these jerks, so I fought it tooth and nail. I refused to get in the car with him, I'd leave the apartment for a while, ignore his calls, crash at my friend Katy's place for a few hours until I was sure he'd let the issue drop until another time, until it happened again. And it always happened again, like clockwork – well, more like my period, because for some reason it happens more frequently around the time Aunt Flo comes to visit. Great. Some girls get cramps and bloating, I get nightmare realities. Fantastic.

I guess I'm not being very clear, am I? Look, I don't understand it any easier than someone else, and I tried explaining that to the shrinks, to my father, but no one seems to really get it. I'll do my best, though. Maybe if I lay it all out and work over the details, something will eventually stand out to me. Maybe something will finally fall into place, make the whole puzzle complete and solved, the mystery gone.

The first time it happened, I was seven years old. My father had dropped me off at my ballet lesson, in the gymnasium at the elementary school, and I remember being nervous because this was the first time he wouldn't be there with me. I was so used to having my father around that I almost felt like I couldn't. . . be safe without him. I probably sound like I was a clingy, annoying child, but honestly I wasn't. Nor was my dad overbearing and overprotective. He was just there for me, always, and I had grown to rely on that, almost depend on it. So when he left me there I panicked – I didn't tell him, of course. How can a seven year old possibly vocalize that kind of fear, that nervousness, without it being an annoying whine, like a cry for attention? I'm sure if I had pleaded with my dad he would've stayed, he was just that kind of guy, but I didn't. I couldn't. I just sat there in silence as he let me out of the car and told me he'd be back in time to pick me up. I didn't even look at him as he said goodbye and waited for me to get inside before driving off – I thought I would burst into tears if I saw him leave me.

My ballet instructor, all I remember is her name: Madam Sybill. I can't remember what she looks like – which kinda scares me, but I guess the memory got crowded out because of this particular day and what happened. Anyone's bound to forget so small a detail as a stranger's face if they went through what I did. But there I go again, being cryptic. . . Sorry. I walked inside the gymnasium and I felt so small, so helpless. The other girls were there, positioned in a semi circle in the center of the room, with Madam Sybill in the middle of them, instructing them how to hold out their arms and clench their legs. A few other girls were straggling in the corner, adjusting their slippers or letting their mothers tend to their hair. This only made me feel worse at the time, because my dad wasn't here, and because my mom. . . I never really knew her. Dad said that she died when I was born, that she was ill, but she managed to save her strength to give me to him and that I was her last, great gift. Dad called me his miracle, but really, if that's true (which I doubt now, knowing what I do) I'd say she was the miracle, being able to have a child when she knew she'd be dead, that the strain of labor might kill her. I didn't think of this at the time – how could I? I was seven – but I felt a part of it, and I only wanted my dad to be near me all the more. I felt sick. I'm sure I looked it, because one of the mothers turned to me and asked if I was all right. She said she'd take me to the bathroom if I needed it, but I told her I'd be fine by myself. I didn't want this stranger near me, I didn't want somebody else's mother. I wanted my father.

So I headed off to the bathroom by myself. It was down the hall from the gym, and I remember feeling scared and a little freaked out by how quiet the school was. It was like I'd walked into a completely different place once I'd opened the gym doors: there was nobody around, not even a janitor. I knew the way to the bathroom so I walked there was quickly as I could, my feet slipping a bit on the tiles. I pushed open the heavy wooden door, only to find that the bathroom was barely lit. Something must have been wrong with the lights, but I didn't have the presence of mind to think that at the time – all I thought was that something was wrong, something bad was happening, and it was all because my dad had left me – and that made me angry. I think I started crying, then – at least, I remember feeling the same tightness in my chest I always feel when I'm angry and want to cry, like something was squirming inside, itching to burst out, but all that emerged was something like a squeal. This only scared me more, before I realized that _I_ was the one making the noise and of course that didn't help. It just made it worse.

The lights flickered, some of them dying out completely. The bathroom was mostly shadow and strangely damp. I didn't know where all the water came from – there were some puddles on the floor, as if a sink or a toilet had overflowed, and the mirrors seemed dirty, like they could've used a good shot of Windex. I remember walking over to one of them, even though I hate looking in mirrors, and I was surprised to see how scared I looked. My face, always pale, was shining like a beacon in the dark room. I could barely see my hair, it blended in with the shadows. This was a pretty creepy effect, as it made it seem like all I was was a floating head in all this black space, with wide saucers for eyes that were dribbling tears.

I remember speaking to my reflection. I don't know why I bothered, I didn't think it'd do anything, but I was so desperate, so eager to see my father again – maybe if I said something, he'd show up. He'd open the door and hold out his arms, apologize for making me wait, and we'd head back home and I wouldn't have to worry about Madame Sybill and her stupid _Plié_, _Pas _and _Glissade _commands. Fat chance of that ever happening. So I talked to myself, maybe just to hear a familiar voice, thinking it'd calm me down.

"Daddy, where are you?" I remember asking, and my voice was squeaky, like a mouse. I began to cry in earnest then, full fledged sobs that made me shake and echoed off the bathroom walls, making it seem like a dozen of me's were in the room, crying their eyes out over their missing father. I shut my eyes, screwed up my face and turned away from the mirror: I didn't want to look at myself anymore. I didn't want to stay here. I wanted to go _home_. So I ran to the door, and I pulled on the handle.

But the handle didn't move. Someone must've locked it – I thought, maybe, they didn't realize I was in here, the janitor was closing up for the night and just locked it because he didn't think there'd be some stupid ballerina in here crying because her daddy had to go to a meeting about his new book instead of stay here while his daughter pranced about the gym in a tutu. I remember pulling hard, with all my might, at the giant silver handle but it didn't budge. I screamed, I cried, I did both, I'm sure, and pounded my fists against the door. I hurled my shoulder into it, but the door barely trembled. I remember asking for help, for Madam Sybill, for daddy, for anybody to come find me and get me out of here, but nobody heard me. This only made it worse. I tugged harder, I pounded, I scratched until some of my fingernails tore and finally I remember sinking to the floor, sobbing, feeling like I could die here and no one would be any the wiser.

And then I heard something. Behind me, the sound of a valve turning. It was a high, splitting squeak, louder than the sounds I was making, somehow, and I remember that it shut me up quickly. Maybe I wasn't alone in the bathroom after all – maybe something else was locked in here, with me. That wasn't much of a comfort, though. I turned around, but I didn't see anything – I couldn't, it was too dark. No light was shining through the windows, though it had been midday when my dad dropped me off. It was like a heavy blanket had fallen over this room, with me trapped inside it, and there I was, hurtling through the unknown, detached from the world. This feeling never faded, even as I got older; each time this. . . thing happened, I'd feel like I was barely connected to the world I knew, like the cord was flimsy, weak at best, and could easily snap and leave me floating in this nothingness, in this nightmare, in this. . . Otherside.

I stood up and walked a little closer to the source of the sound – still I couldn't make out anything. The squeak kept happening, with a pause for a second, as much time as it takes a hand to move back to its original position and start turning again. I passed by the first mirror, the second, and came to a stop before the third – I knew I was running out of space, that the only thing in front of me now would be a wall, a solid wall, with nothing else to it. I shivered, suddenly it had gotten so cold – how could it be this cold?

A flicker of movement from my left caught my attention, so I turned to it – it was the mirror again. I looked back at myself for only an instant, because as soon as I turned my head my reflection disappeared. It became something else.

It was another girl, about my age, with my same features – at least, I think we looked alike. Honestly it was hard to tell because she was. . . burned. She was horribly disfigured, like an accident victim. Her skin was blotchy with scabs, with puss and sores, with heavy, horrible burns. She looked like a hotdog left on the burner too long, patches of flesh sticking out painfully from all the wounds. Her eyes – she had my eyes. How were her eyes unharmed? The rest of her was – her hair was all gone, even her eyebrows. Her lips were puckered, swollen, her nose. . . I couldn't see if she had a nose. Her face was so dark, and the room was full of shadows. But her eyes, they were bright, they were wide, and they were _mine_.

She pointed at me, but I didn't move. I didn't point – how could a reflection look like someone else, do things you didn't do? She pointed at me and I thought she would scream, that she would start talking to me, accuse me of. . . I don't know, I don't know _how _I knew this, or felt, it but I couldn't make any sense of it. I can't even make sense of it now, and it's been ten years. She lifted her other hand, and then I realized that she was pressing her hands against the glass, against her side of the mirror. Her palms were as black as the rest of her, and the movement made her skin crack and bleed afresh. I saw the blood press into the glass, trickle down it like tears – and I saw it hit the sink at the bottom of the mirror, and roll into the basin.

That's when I started screaming again, because there was no way I could've seen that. The blood was coming out from _my side_.

I don't know how long I was screaming for. Everything went dark then – the lights could've turned out, I could've shut my eyes, or the terror of it all could've made me black out, I'm not sure. All I remember was hearing my own voice, screaming, wailing, calling out for my dad over and over again, but I couldn't see a thing. I thought I'd finally gotten lost in that nothingness, in the Otherside, that the girl in the reflection had pulled me across somehow and I'd be trapped forever – but I wasn't. I don't know how, but I got out.

I remember coming to – I didn't "wake up" so much as light and sight and sounds rushed back to me with all the force of a stampeding rhino – back in the gym, still screaming my head off, crouched down in the corner near an exposed pipe. I don't know why it was there, and I can't remember how I got there – none of the mother's knew, either, because they started screaming, too, and turned to stare at me, horrified.

"She came out of nowhere!" they said.

"We didn't see her come in!" they said.

"I want my daddy!" I said, and Madam Sybill called to have him come get me.

My dad didn't say anything to me on the car ride home. He'd spoken, briefly, with the mothers, with Madam Sybill, to try and understand just what the hell happened that made his daughter freak out and huddle down in the backseat of the car, not speaking and jumping at the slightest sound. They couldn't explain it, they all said I'd been there one minute, gone the next, and back again, as if I popped out of thin air. His lips were tight, like a grimace, when he came back to the car and drove me home. We drove in silence. He didn't even look at me in the rear-view mirror, just kept his eyes on the road and his mouth shut for the time it took us to pull up at our house.

When we got inside, he drew a warm bath for me and told me to clean up. I remember crying again, softer this time, begging him to stay with me like he used to do – but he told me I was getting too old for that now. That I could manage to take care of myself, or at least clean myself. I remember this shut me up rather fast because it was the first time I could remember my father ever being the least bit mean to me, ever outright denying me his presence and comfort. He didn't even look at me – his face was like stone. He seemed angry – of course, now I know better. Back then I thought he was just mad that I made it happen, that he was punishing me for what I did, and that I'd just have to deal with his stony silence until it blew over and I was his precious little girl again, his miracle. Now I know that he wasn't mad – he was frightened, like he was expecting it to happen all along.

And it did happen again. It kept happening, sometimes worse, sometimes not as bad, and eventually I figured out a way to handle it. Not "deal," because I sure as hell didn't know of a way to deal with something like this. Mostly my handling strategy consisted of me crouching in a corner, a safe corner, away from sights and sounds and light, shutting my eyes tight and thinking of my dad. I can't say that I prayed for him, as I was never particularly religious nor was I raised that way, but I guess it could be seen as the same thing. I thought of his face, his smile, his laugh; I thought of his arms and how strong they were, how they could lift me up and carry me away from anything, how they could hold me and protect me from any fright, any terror; I thought of how he called me his miracle, I thought of how much he loved me, and I simply waited for it to pass. It always did. I'd come to in a matter of minutes, though it certainly felt longer, and I'd collect my bearings, calm myself down, and go back to wherever I had first been, hoping no one had noticed that I'd gone missing, and that they wouldn't ask why I looked like I'd seen a ghost. Or a girl in a mirror that shouldn't have been there – because she was always there, whenever a mirror was around and I was stupid enough to look into it. She never left, and she never got any better, either. She stilled remained burned, bloody, and horribly marred – but she got older as I got older.

So, the same thing has been happening now – only it's worse, it's happening more often, getting longer every time. It gets to the point where I don't know if I can even leave my room for fear that I'll turn a corner and end up somewhere completely different, end up completely cut off from the world I knew, and I just can't bear the thought of that. My dad, of course, thought I had some kind of anxiety disorder and he told the shrink this – so they prescribed some Klonopin and called it a day, told me to check back with them if I had any problems. I already _had_ problems, but they didn't care about that.

I don't know if I want to take it – I haven't been taking it, because I hate the idea of medication and allowing myself to depend on it to function, because I sure as hell should be able to function just fine on my own, but I'm starting to wonder, lately, if I should give it a try. Maybe it'd help – I mean, it's worth a shot, right?

I just needed some convincing. I wasn't about to do it for no good reason. I kinda felt like if I took it and just sat around the house, it'd be a total waste. What was the use, then? Luckily – I guess it was luck – my dad asked me to run an errand for him the day after that. Said that he would be busy waiting for a call from his editor, that he had to take it and couldn't miss it, and he insisted that I go out and pick it up for him. Looking back, maybe this was his way of pushing me out of the apartment, of making me test out the medication (of which I suspected he knew I wasn't taking) or at least to get me out of his hair for a little bit. I wasn't exactly the best of company, cooped up and terrified as I was. Figuring this was some sort of sign that I should give Klonopin a whirl, I took the pill and told dad I'd pick up what he needed at the Mall.

Now, I wish I hadn't taken the damn thing and just stayed at home, locked in my room, under the covers, because maybe if I had none of this shit would have happened. Maybe if I had, my dad would still be alive.


	2. I: Fluxoting

** Author's Note:** I know Fluxoting isn't a real word - it's a joke about the medication "Fluoxetine," aka Prozac.

* * *

**Chapter I** – Fluxoting.

I woke up that day around nine, resigned to take the damn Klonopin and get it over with, and dredged up the tremendous courage it took to cross the threshold of my doorway. My dad was sitting at the table reading the morning paper, looking somewhat sleepy and ruffled in his robe, reading glasses and slippers. He smiled at me as I walked out, looking. . . relieved? Surprised? Well, I hadn't left my room in three days – the last waking nightmare was so bad, I begged him to call me out sick from school for the rest of the week. I couldn't take it. I don't know how, but I ended up in this. . . open area, on a long stretch of road full of fog and no human in sight. There were other things, though – things you could call monsters, but I'm afraid that sounds too crazy. They aren't human, that's for sure, and they're definitely no animal, unless it's been introduced to some serious toxic waste or laboratory experiments. No, no experiment, no matter what disgusting scientist is running the show, could create things like that: besides, they couldn't get it to fly without any wings. . .

I didn't want to think of that. Even now, as I write this, I don't want to dwell on it unless I have to. And I don't. I forced myself not to think of the terror I felt, walking down that road, wrapped in fog and an empty, hollow chill that made me feel dead and horrible, and focused instead on the calming face of my dad, seated in his usual spot, happy to see me attempting contact with humanity.

"You're awake," he said, which prompted me to smirk and shift my shoulder a little bit, in a non-committal shrug.

"Have been for a while now," I replied.

He frowned, looking at me curiously over his glasses. "Did you get to bed late?"

"Sort of," I mumbled, not wanting to tell him I had spent most of my night hidden under my blankets, holding my doll Scarlett, hoping that by clutching onto something from _this _world I wouldn't shift over into the next. I took a seat next to him at the table and pulled the Entertainment section towards me – doing the crosswords was a hobby of mine, especially now, when my mind was so foggy from terror and hoping with every part of my being that I'd get to bed okay and not wake up somewhere else. Dramatic, yeah, but I don't think you could fairly call it that unless you've felt it yourself. Besides – crossword puzzles were fun.

We sat in silence for a while, dad reading whatever he was reading, and me letting my mind come into some kind of clarity, emerging through the haze, as I scratched off the clues and filled in the little boxes. Every now and then I spoke up, asking him to help me with the puzzle, if I thought the clue was too vague or about something "from his time." He laughed at this and shook his head, telling me he wasn't _that _old. I only smiled. My father was timeless to me, like parents are to most children – I knew I wouldn't always feel that way; as I grew older, surely his mortality would be made more apparent to me, but that thought terrified me. I didn't want to think of my dad as some steadily, slowly decaying life-form that would soon drop dead due to organ failure or simple old age. I wanted to think of him as constant, as enduring, because it helped me feel that way, too. It helped give me focus.

Finally he broke our comfortable silence. "Katy called for you."

"What did she want?" I didn't look up at him – I was trying to figure out just who the hell this "Director Kazan" was. He, or she, had been used in the puzzles quite often this week but I could never remember the letters and it always ended up being the last part I couldn't solve.

"She said she's heading to work early today, and wanted to know if you were going to stop by. Asked how you were." The paper rustled; I guessed that he lowered it to look at me closely.

"And what did you tell her?" I still didn't look at him – stupid Kazan.

"That you were getting over your stomach virus and should feel well enough to pay her a visit." I could hear the smile in his voice before I turned to look at it – it made me smile, too. I couldn't help it, looking at him. It was like we were connected by a wire, his movements were mine, his emotions were mine.

"Nice save," I said warmly, feeling grateful that he'd covered for me like that. I didn't expect him to tell Katy the truth about why her best friend had holed up in her apartment for three days, like a lunatic shut-in; he was too polite to breach that right of privacy of mine, and I didn't think he'd want to go spreading the truth around. . . for his own personal reasons, besides mine.

"You're still going on that errand for me today." I guess I could have taken this as a question, but the tone of his voice didn't sound like one. It sounded sure, like a gentle command.

I shrugged again but said, "I told you I would. Don't worry about it, dad."

"Good, because I have to take a very important phone call, honey, from work. I can't miss it."

"I know, dad."

And he went back to reading his paper – me, my crossword.

I left a half hour after that, tidying myself up for public display as best I could but deciding against make up, opting to wear something comfortable – and besides, I was dying to try out the new boots I'd bought at the mall two weeks ago with Katy. They were gorgeous, knee-high with no heels, a rarity, and fit snugly over my calves. The skirt I wore matched it just perfectly, a deep, olive green. . . but my shirts, to my dismay, were slim pickin's. I hadn't bothered to do any laundry, a grave fashion mistake since that meant I'd either have to go out in something wrinkly, something smelly, or something a little on the ridiculous side, something that hadn't seen the light of day and had previously taken up space in my closet for quite a long time. These two items were, of course, gifts or things I'd bought at one point in time, thinking it'd look cool before bringing it home and realizing how decidedly _un_cool they looked on me: a sleeveless orange shirt with a high neck and a puffy, white vest.

I ducked into the bathroom before leaving, taking one long look at the small pill bottle on the sink.

Rx# 673237  
HEATHER MORRIS  
**Take ½ tablet in morning for 1 week then take 1 tablet in the morning for 1 month**.

Well, doctor's orders. I held the small, light blue pill between my fingers and pressed, snapping it in half with ease. Twisting the knobs of the tap to let out a small trickle of water, I cupped a bit in my hand and quickly swallowed the pill and then the water, shivering a bit as the sensation of it sliding down my throat filled me with the same, tiny flair of dread that swallowing pills always did. I don't know why, but it's always been so hard for me to manage that – you'd think I could practice on some Skittles or M&Ms, but those were much more enjoyable, and tasty, than an anti-anxiety med.

I didn't look long into the mirror – I didn't want to see my face, could only see it whipping out of sight as I flicked off the light and strode through my room and out the door back into the living room. My dad was now at his arm chair in front of the TV, jotting something down in a notebook on his lap. He looked up quickly when I walked in and made to tuck the book out of sight, as if I'd been intruding on him writing a diary entry. . .

I didn't want to ask him about it, knowing how he got when he was hit with a stroke of inspiration – he always said he had a weird, fickle Muse – and instead smiled at him, waving my hand a little bit. "I'm probably going to spend the whole day there, hanging out and stuff. What is it you wanted me to get again?"

"Well, if you're going to visit Katy it won't be that much out of the way," he said, discreetly tucking the notebook between his thigh and the arm of the chair. I didn't say anything about it, letting him think he'd pulled a fast one on me. "It's a book, something that may come in handy for what I'm working on.

"It's called _Gravity's Rainbow_, by Thomas Pynchon."

I frowned, raised an eyebrow. "What, is it about space or something?"

He chuckled, shook his head, and said something about me being too young to appreciate good literature. "No, nothing like that. It's quite good – pick up a copy for yourself, if you have the extra cash."

"You're expecting me to pay out of my own pocket?" I was only mock offended by this – I hadn't had many part-time jobs, as they couldn't exactly hold onto a person who would, you know, fall off the face of the earth, end up in Hell, and come back screaming her head off a few minutes later. Plus I didn't have that big of a desire to work at a Happy Burger or do some crap waitressing job just to scrounge up a few bucks. I wanted to work somewhere I'd _enjoy –_ and so far I hadn't quite found a place that didn't make me want to pull at my hair in frustration or boredom. Because of this, my cash flow was rather limited, more like a drop here and there. I still had enough to get by, pay for subway fare, something to eat, and whatever it was dad wanted me to pick up, but it might be pushing it. I'd probably have to dig for coins in the couch for a couple of days, but I'd manage.

"Well, you _are _doing me a favor."

"I thought you said it was an errand."

He smiled and cocked his head. "You're not worming out of this, Heather. You still have to go."

I held up my hands and walked towards the door, grinning. "Going, going, gone. See you later, dad."

I wish I had taken a better look at him. I wish I had taken the time to give him a big hug, maybe a rare kiss, told him I loved him, told him how grateful I was that he was looking out for me, no matter how much I argued against it or hated it. I wish I had done something different – asked him to come along, told him we could go another time, that I wanted to spend the whole day with him. Maybe I could've helped him. Maybe I could've done something.

But I left. And so, I have to write that. It won't do any good to waste more ink on something that I _wished _happened instead of something that did – because a lot happened after that.

The subway ride to the mall didn't take too long – about twenty-five minutes, give or take. It was early enough to be sort of busy, but not packed – not like Manhattan's subway systems, that are crowded full of people at any time of day. People in business suits and with briefcases sat at the long row of plastic benches, reading the paper or fiddling with their phones, chatting with someone at the office or back home. A few kids around my age were standing, holding onto the pole or the overhead handles and laughing loudly – there was an old woman, sitting in the corner, sniffling and holding a small dog on her lap. I stood next to the kids, thinking that it'd help pass the time if I had something to listen to, and that what they had to talk about would be more interesting than business talk or the snot-filled, phlegmy breathing of the old woman.

"Where did you say you were eating tonight?" One of the girls asked, her face covered in piercings – I couldn't help but stare at all of the glinting metal. She had a terrible complexion, and the subway lighting didn't make it look any better. She was talking to the only guy with her, a tall, thin, weedy looking boy that had curly black hair and thin, wire-framed glasses. He pushed them up as he spoke.

"Beth Aspinall, you know her."

The first girl laughed at this, opening her mouth wide – I could see a tongue stud flash and couldn't help but scowl. Those were so gross – and she had weird teeth. "Oh god, her culinary skills are _legend_."

"What was the joke again?" Another girl asked, a small, meek looking thing with heavy eyes, thick hair that hung like a curtain on either side of her face, and a sullen, pudgy expression.

"That she started the Chicago Fires," the first girl said, laughing again.

The boy grinned at this – I was comforted to see that his teeth were in far better shape than his companion. He was definitely easier on the eyes than the other two, so I kept my focus on him. "That was her trying to make cereal – _cold _cereal."

Well, that was a waste. . . deciding that watching the blur of lights pass by would be much more interesting than listening to this trio talk, I turned my head to stare out the window, letting my mind wander and my focus slacken.

* * *

"Wow, Heath, you look like shit." 

"Nice to see you, too, Katy."

"Cool boots, though."

I looked down at them and couldn't help but smile. I was standing at the counter of My Bestsellers, a small bookstore on the second level of the mall. Katy was leaning forward, one arm resting on the top of the register, the other perched on her hip. She was staring at me shrewdly, looking me over with a small frown on her face.

"No, really, you look bad," she said.

"Well, I _was _sick. . ." I didn't want to talk about this – I just wanted to get the damn book my dad wanted, talk pleasantly with my friend and get a bite to eat with her when she went on break.

"All right, and just so you know: Robinson told me if you miss another class he's going to give you a Saturday detention." Katy smiled a bit at this, her laugh soft, like a puff of air. "Guess you shouldn't have ducked out last week, huh?"

"My dad needed me for something." Which was a lie – he hadn't, but I couldn't exactly explain to her that instead of heading to History I wound up locked in a classroom with a single desk, words carved, nearly gouged, into the dusty wooden surface, with the strange feeling that I'd been there before, that if I looked in that desk I'd find a small, plastic pencil case with a broken zipper, some playing cards and a sketching of what looked like a bat with a reptile's face. Just. . . don't ask.

"Isn't that why you're here today?"

I could've kissed her for reminding me of that, for drawing me out of my unpleasant memories. "Yeah, he needed some. . . Pinching book? I dunno the guy's name, but the title's _Gravity's Rainbow_."

Katy rolled her eyes but began to emerge from behind the counter, walking steadily toward a shelf that said _Employee Recommendations_. "Tom's reading it again. Won't stop going on about it, actually – he's taking notes and everything."

"That good, huh?" I followed close behind her, squeezing between a mother and her small daughter; they were fawning over the latest _Harry Potter _book. Maybe I'd thumb through it if I had the time – I always liked those books, the first two were cute. . . as cute as a book about an orphaned boy raised by abusive relatives could be.

Katy shrugged. "I guess, I've never bothered. . . I can't understand it, it's too weird." She ran her finger along the shelf and brightened visibly, extracting the book with ease. It was a heavy looking thing, something like a tome or a Bible, and the cover was auburn, decorated with a black bomb in the center. How ominous. I took it from her and frowned, wondering how much something like this would cost. I didn't have much left on me. . . twenty-five bucks, at most. And I was pretty hungry.

"It won't cost that much, it's on the recommendations shelf," Katy said as if reading my mind. She lead me back to the counter, yanking a plastic bag off the shelf behind her as she did. "Plus I can probably throw in one of my discounts – I mean, I'm not usin' them or anything."

"I don't know why you work in a bookstore if you don't even like reading books. . ." Really, it made no sense to me. I would've loved to have her job, but I didn't last out the week. The waking nightmares had been pretty bad then, and it didn't help that my period took it upon itself to be the heaviest and most unbearable its ever been.

"Meh," she said, sliding the book over the scanner and punching in a few digits on the register's number pad. "It's easy money, I mean the place isn't exactly packed. It's better than Helen's."

I frowned, thinking of the mall's layout and the nearby shops. "The bakery?"

"Yeah," Katy nodded. She leaned forward again, lowering her voice to something like a stage whisper. "Scuzzy Creevy works there now." And she shivered.

"Ew," I said and joined her in the shivers, extending the ten dollar bill from the pocket of my vest to her. She dropped it in the till and shut it with a snap. "That guy's entire body is a biohazard zone."

"Never mind that, when's the last time he's taken a freakin' _bath_? My god, you could smell him over the Dak's Sourdough – can I help you?"

I shuffled out of the way, grabbing the bag and the book inside as I went, letting the mother and daughter make their purchase. My stomach was rumbling something fierce – if I didn't get something to eat now, I'd regret it. I waited until Katy's attention was free again before telling her I'd be back in a couple minutes, walked out from the shop and headed towards the escalators, thinking some fries and a soda would hold me over until I could get something more suitable at home later on. I passed by Helen's Bakery with a smirk –

And it happened again. It was so sudden, so abrupt – I was walking, minding my own business, and I felt. . . foggy, and dazed. A small part of my mind contracted in panic but my body didn't respond; I kept walking, one foot in front of the other, like nothing was wrong, nothing was out of the ordinary. . . and of course, it was. It always was.

When my mind cleared, slowly, like rising from the depths of a great ocean, I wasn't at the mall anymore – I was nowhere _near _the mall by the looks of it. Metal grating clanked beneath my feet, like someone had lain a wire fence down as a suitable replacement for concrete, and there was wisps of fog moving through the air like smoke; the sky was black, as black as ink, and there was the strong smell of rust and filth – and blood.

I squinted at my surroundings, not understanding. . . not really wanting to understand. "Where am I. . . ?" My voice sounded small and needy in the silence. It seemed safe enough to speak. If there was anything out there going bump in the night, it'd find me regardless if I made a noise or not. It always had before now. I looked down at my feet, at the weird floor beneath it – and a flash of metal caught my eye. It was in my hand.

A knife. A pocket switchblade – one I'd nicked from an Army Supplies Store down on Sutton and Pierce Street last autumn. I felt myself recoil in horror, wondering stupidly where my bag and the book had gone, before realizing something far more terrifying: I'd never been armed before. Whoever or whatever controlled these shifts, I was determined to believe something was behind it so it would be all the more easy to place my hatred and blame on this unknowable adversary, had had enough mercy, previously, to keep me a hair's width from harm – sure, there were terrible things out there. I'd seen some things that could land any person in the loony bin, surely, but never had I been put in the direct path of danger. I'd always managed to avoid it somehow.

It didn't look like I'd get such a reprieve this time.


	3. II: Hau Ruck

_See the animal in its cage that you built  
are you sure what side you're on?  
Better not look him too closely in the eye,  
_**are you sure what side of the glass you are on?**  
-- Nine Inch Nails, "Right Where It Belongs."

* * *

**Chapter II – Hau Ruck**

I broke out into a sweat, which was pretty remarkable considering the temperature here couldn't have been over fifty degrees. Dimly did I acknowledge regret at my choice of attire, but I couldn't focus too much on this worry considering the far more pressing matters around me – for instance, wherever the hell I had ended up, and my new accessories. Because I had more than just the knife on me – it took me a moment to realize it, a moment to gather my bearings and stop staring at the fiercely glinting blade, before I noticed a small flashlight sticking out from my breast pocket. It gave off a feeble light, more of a spotlight than anything else, but it was better than nothing – better than darkness. And in my other breast pocket there was a small, hand-held radio – all that came out from the speaker was a faint, low hiss (and that was with the volume completely jacked up, it was totally silent otherwise), and even when I fiddled with the dials and the small antennae the sound didn't change. No stations came in, not even some AM Church broadcast or NPR dialog. I thought about chucking it, I mean, what use was a radio that didn't even work?, before some burst of practical thought rang loud and clear in my mind: if it was given to me, obviously it'd prove useful. The knife. . . well, I didn't want to think too hard about why that'd come in handy, but the flashlight was an obvious aid in all this dreary, foggy blackness. Maybe the radio would prove useful, too. In any case, I would never find out by standing here. . .

I didn't particularly want to, but I had no other choice: I walked forward, tentatively, peering around me and paying close attention for a hint at sound, any sound, but none besides my own hollowly clanking footfalls were made. The beam of my flashlight caught on a pair of large, pink paws – I turned fast, illuminating the rest of it. . . and felt myself shiver, my throat tighten and gag. Laying on its side, sprawled as if it had fallen there after receiving a serious injury, was a large, pink rabbit, blood smeared around its face and pooling around its head. Its cartoony expression looked totally ridiculous in this setting, not to mention down right creepy considering all the blood covering it – and worse still was the next train of thought that pulled into my mental station: _There's a _person_ in there_.

Of course, there had to be: this must be a mascot or something. . . like those Disney princesses you see wandering around Disneyworld. I turned to glance over my shoulder, wondering why I hadn't noticed it earlier: just about the only other source of light here was the bright, neon-illuminated sign labeled _LAKESIDE AMUSEMENT PARK_ in fancy, curlicue script. It seemed familiar, somehow. Had Dad taken me here when I was younger? It seemed like a kid's kind of park, something you go to on field trips or holidays, but for the life of me I couldn't remember ever being here. Maybe the sudden shift from 'normal' to 'Lovecraft's wet dream' was throwing me off – I wouldn't doubt it, but no matter how hard I probed my mind I couldn't come up with a clear memory, nothing more than a vague, but resonating, feeling that I'd been here before. . .

I turned round to face front and kept walking, ignoring the dead mascot and the bile it invoked, trying hard not to stare too hard at its twin, propped up on my right, slackened, limp and just as bloody as its brother as it sat on a bench. I seriously hoped that blood was fake, but I couldn't bring myself to move too close to examine it – I had the feeling, a stupid fear, really, that if I got too close they'd jump up and attack me, that they were just playing possum, waiting for some stupid, sympathetic passer-by to. . . well, pass by and look them over. I wasn't about to test this crack pot theory of mine, so I moved onward.

On either side of me, a good twenty or so feet apart, were metal. . . cages, I guess. It looked like something was hanging in them, and I felt my stomach turning, churning, at the thought of it. I was suddenly glad I hadn't made it down to Happy Burger as I'd have promptly retched up whatever greasy food they'd given me right there on the metal floor, because the closer I walked the more detailed the figures became: _human_. They were _humans_. I couldn't see their faces. . . not that I particularly wanted to, but their positioning made it hard to look at their features: there was a thick, black stain where a face should be, as if it were burned off completely; their arms were extended, painfully, behind them at an angle that suggested suspension: they were being dangled by their wrists. They wore weird, flesh colored smocks – long, shapeless bags of dresses that blended in perfectly with their skin, their horrible, blotchy and burned skin. . .

I gagged, then, and covered my mouth with my hand. They looked so much like the girl I saw in the mirror when I was a child, the girl I saw if I stared too long in any reflective surface in this world, this nightmare. I didn't want to think about what had done that to them, if they were somehow connected to her, and if that was in store for me if I wasn't careful enough. I could have cried, then – I'm not sure how I managed to avoid it, so overwhelming was the urge to break down, sob, and wail for my father. I didn't want to go anywhere, I didn't want to wander around and stray across the path of danger, or something much, much worse, but the more I thought about it the less I wanted to stay put. Being out in the open like this wasn't too smart of an idea, I'd be fresh meat for anything that came passing through. My safest bet was to find somewhere small, somewhere enclosed and safe, and lay low for a while. I just hoped nothing would find me there.

So I took a look around with the flashlight – the walls were mostly brick, thickly stained with grime and various filth I didn't want to get close enough to touch, thinking it'd be contagious or just plain nasty to boot, when something wooden caught my eye – a door, a small, wooden one. It barely stood out, though it was of different material, thanks to the total state of disrepair this whole place was in, and I cautiously walked towards it, wincing when my fingers touched the slick, cool metal.

Holding my breath, I pulled it open wide enough for me to slip through and stepped across – to a semi-circular area, just as dark as the one before, but more horrible. I could see the blackness in front of me, as if nothing existed except for the ground I was standing on and the land attached to it: there was nothing but empty space and dead air. I shivered again, thinking back to my previous, unending fear of hurtling through an abyss, connected to reality by a thinning wisp of thread. I closed my eyes, thought of my father, and hoped beyond hope that I could will the connection to be stronger, that I could will the space between to close, lessen somehow, bring me closer to –

Home is what I wanted to say, home was what I was thinking of, but just then a sudden, hissing wail burst out from the radio in my pocket, causing my eyes to fly open and my body to tense. I looked around, focusing more on my right since there was nothing but a wall and a trashcan on my other side, wondering what caused it, where it had come from. . . and then I heard it: footsteps. Four at a time, the soft, padding sound of what seemed like an animal. Panic flared up inside me; I would have rather met a person, though honestly a human would probably be no better than a beast, considering what this place was like, and I held on tighter to my knife, thinking that if the stupid thing decided to get rough on me, I could scare it off.

My flashlight lit up its head first – or rather, its _heads_. I still find it hard to decide on that one, because it looked rather like someone had cleaved a dog's head right down the middle, splitting the jaw, the snout, and between the eyes all perfectly even: fine, menacing sets of fangs sneered from either side of the monster's mouth, its nose was wet with snot and blood, and its eyes – they were black, they were horrible. The gaping, scarlet interior wasn't much better, and again I could feel my stomach performing Olympic-worthy somersaults at the sight of it. _How was it moving? _Nothing could have survived an injury like that – was it hurt? Was it in shock, wandering around before it keeled over and died? But it didn't seem to be bleeding. . . I felt sick and equally saddened; if it _was _hurt, there was no way I could help it, unless it was looking for a mercy kill, and even that I wasn't sure I could do. I wasn't the biggest fan of dogs, they always frightened me for some reason, but I couldn't just walk away from it, nor did I want to stand around and wait for it to die.

The radio's hissing and wailing drew me out of my confusion, however, and just in time, too, because I realized the dog wasn't about to kneel down and bite the dust anytime soon – it was moving just fine, despite its traumatic head wound, and it was coming right towards me, running speedily on its legs, barely making a sound as it rushed closer, snarling and growling. I dodged out of its path just in time, spinning on my heels to watch it charge and crash right into the trashcan, leaving an impressive dent in its side. Some debris fluttered out from the top, like vomit spewing up from an open mouth, and fluttered around the wounded dog. It shook its heads and trembled, momentarily dazed, and I lifted the knife a little higher, backing away slowly. I didn't want to fight it unless I absolutely had to – I still wasn't sure if it was just panicking, just as confused as I was, and ready to strike out at the first living thing it saw, mistaking me with its attacker.

It turned around again, staring me down and snarling; rivulets of drool oozed from its impossibly functioning jaw and pooled on the floor. I kept shifting backwards, not wanting to give it any reason to attack again, as I was sure sprinting off and screaming would very well provoke such a reaction, still unsure of what to do. I couldn't reason with the dog, that's for sure; it didn't seem the type to take a command, not in that state. But something else was bothering me. . . something that made me more eager to lunge forward and slice at every bit of exposed dog-flesh I could reach: the radio's reaction. Surely, it was a meaning of some sort? A warning? It could very well be telling me, in its white noise way, to show no mercy and put Fido down before he put me down, and the rapidly dwindling voice of reason in the back of my mind rebelled against the notion of killing a defenseless animal.

Well, I mean, it had teeth and a pretty bad temper. It wasn't _totally _defenseless. I'm sure if I had to explain it to someone – the police, or worse, the dog's owner – they'd surely understand the situation of defending yourself in the presence of a rabid, pissed off animal. But that wasn't all, there was something else. . . something burning inside me, growing slowly, moving and shifting ever so slightly at the sight of this abomination. It took me a little bit to realize that I _hated _this thing, I hated this wounded, pathetic, abortive creature staring me down, and to let it live would be a grievous wrong.

_Kill it_, this part of me urged. _Put it out of its misery._

_No! It's just a dog! Just go back through the door and wait for this to pass! _Said my fading voice of reason; it sounded small and frail, like the voice of a little girl missing her daddy. The other voice, the bloodlust-y and vicious one, sounded stronger, surer, more powerful. And, well, I'd be stupid to have listened to anyone else.

When the dog raced towards me again, I was ready for it – more than that, I was _happy _that it gave me a reason to attack. I took great joy in lifting my leg up and slamming my foot into one of its faces, nearly laughed as it yelped and fell back to the ground, momentarily dazed. I took advantage of its weakness and kicked again, hard, into its side, right near its ribs, and felt one of the bones crack. The dog howled, louder this time, a horrible wail that made my ears prick and made my flesh break out in goosebumps, but I didn't stop. I stomped on its wounded, split-head, I smashed one of its front paws beneath my heel, delighting as it shivered and twitched, trying desperately to get back to its feet and on the offensive. Its jaws snapped at my feet, their fangs grazing the material and leaving white, shallow cuts in the surface. With the sound of the radio, hissing louder and the dog yelping, snarling, trying desperately to defend itself, I bent over and brought the knife down with me, digging it hard into the dog's chest – I wasn't sure where its heart was, had no way of knowing, really, but I sank the blade in deep, bathing the handle and my hand in crimson gore and gave the knife a good, hearty wriggle. I smirked, finding the sight of the knife plunged into the stupid beast's swollen ribcage oddly pleasing, as if the tumescent growth was just _begging _to be plundered in such a way. The dog twitched madly, snapping at the air, roaring at nothing, and with one more kick to the side of its head, it gave a wet, low _Hrack! _and lay still.

I pulled my knife out before the realization of what I did overtook me, sweeping over me like the tide rushes over the shore and beats down, endlessly, upon every grain of sand. _I'd just killed a dog. . . I'd killed something_. My body trembled and I stared in horror at the knife, heavily coated in the dog's blood, and my right hand, likewise stained, looking sick with its patterns of bright red and pale, pale white: my skin had blanched, either from the intense grip on the blade or my own disgust with what I'd done.

I tried to reason with myself. . . I didn't have many other options. It was coming at me, it was ready to snap my head off, and I couldn't just stand there and let it.

_I could have run away._

_But it would have followed me._

_I could have hid, I could have waited for it to forget about me._

_And let it find me? Fat chance. No, it was better this way. Better that I stop it before it did the same to me._

I felt like I was arguing with myself – like there were two of me inside my head, bickering back and forth, and there I stood in the middle of it, my head pounding, reeling, my body feeling like it was about to keel over with the tremendous weight of guilt and the stress of their arguing. I pushed my right hand against my forehead, forgetting for a moment that it was covered in blood, and squeezed my eyes shut.

"Would you cut it out already!" I told myself out loud, hissing through clenched teeth. Nothing answered me. My thoughts had quieted for a minute, letting me have a moment to gather my bearings, take a few deep breaths, and try to figure out what to do next. It was in this silence that I realized something else – something important, something almost relieving.

The radio had stopped.

_See, I told you it was dangerous._

"Damn right it was," I muttered as I silently marveled over the radio and whoever had tweaked it to pick up a frequency so fine as to detect a nearby nasty beastie that wanted to tear my face into pulp. Yes, that would come in handy _just _fine in a place like this. And that void of reason, that small, quailing voice that protested what I'd just done? Well, she'd have to shut up and deal with it, if more things like this were waiting out there for me.

I felt disgusted with myself, and oddly pleased, proud. Just what kind of person takes pleasure in gutting a dog, anyway?

The answer, simply, was, "someone who wanted to live." I'd been given the knife for a reason, the radio for a similar one: to defend myself, to kill and to hurt wanted to kill and hurt me. Whoever had supplied me with this valuable trinket, obtained it, somehow, wanted to give me the chance to strike down every last thing that sought to strike _me _down, and I would take full advantage of their terrible generosity.

I never liked dogs much, anyway.


	4. III: No Peace

**Chapter III –** No Peace

Now that the threat was, temporarily, disposed of, I took a good look around me, directing the beam of my flashlight to take in my surroundings. There wasn't much to look at, truthfully: Shops were boarded up as if their owners had expected a hurricane to pass by, all the windows were black and empty, and the few doors that weren't covered up wouldn't open. I wasn't exactly strong – standing at 5'2" and weighing 109 pounds made for a weak battering-ram force – but no matter how I pushed against them, none of the doors budged. Their knobs spun futilely in their frames and I finally resigned myself to the idea that I was probably better off not opening it in the first place. Maybe I wasn't meant to, maybe all that was behind it was that same, terrible black emptiness, an endless abyss of dark matter – this wasn't entirely comforting but at least it meant I'd stand less of a chance of getting lost if I had fewer places to go.

Another odd thing that I noticed was the lights – they were working in some parts, their fluorescent illumination feeble and slightly creepy in all this darkness. Strands of fog moved across it like ghosts, like warm breath meeting cold air, and I found myself wondering at the logic of this place: What controlled the electricity? Who determined where light should shine and where it should not? And why bother making those. . . dogs, if there were more; was I meant to be tested? Killed?

As I said, this wasn't comforting me in the slightest. The idea that someone had created these threats, had even given me something to defend myself with just for the purpose of watching me fight feebly against it was horrifying. It also pissed me off. What person, or what kind of god, would allow and do such a thing? I guess I had to wonder what kind of person, or god, would make this place to begin with – was it connected to all the ones before?, the foggy, endless road, the school with the defiled desk, the girl in the third bathroom mirror, that strange room that was like a basement in a hospital. . . Were they all in the same place? Had I even been there before?

Honestly, I had no way of knowing. My memory of my childhood was a bit foggy, indistinct, but I was sure that I'd never been to any of those places – no foggy stretch of roads, no hospital basement and certainly no amusement park like the one I was currently standing in. Besides, even if these places really did exist that still didn't answer how I ended up here to begin with. . . how could a mall turn itself into an amusement park? And if it _was _the mall, what happened to all the people? Shoppers, employees, things like that? I felt sick to my stomach when I thought of Katy, imagined her stuck in a place like this without a knife to keep her company; wondered if she would manage to make it out okay if she really _was _here. I even felt sorry if Scuzzy Creevy was here; no one deserved to end up in this hellhole, that's for sure.

There was a white door further down the curving sickle of a path – a light was shining above it, as if whatever constructed this place was giving me some kind of clue: _You can hide out in here for a while. _Sure enough, when I tried the knob it gave under my pressure and opened – I paused at the threshold just to be sure. The radio was quiet, and my flashlight didn't highlight anything _particularly _gruesome – in fact this place seemed almost. . . normal, considering the rest of it. It was just a souvenir shop. Little stuffed rabbits, not just pink but yellow and green, too, sat on fat square shelves in front of a long row of various trinkets – shirts, posters, all of them advertising the amusement park at what I was sure would be happier, much more stably functioning times. I wasn't interested in any of them, what good would they do me? It was also kind of creepy to know that something like this was here, that it could still exist despite all the weirdness going on around it: it was like it had been plucked straight from the real world and thrown in here, completely unaware of its surroundings and just how out of place it now seemed.

On the high green shelves behind the shirts and posters were boxes of cookies and sweets. My stomach turned again, reminding me of my hunger, and while I normally loved that kind of stuff I wasn't about to try my luck and eat anything this place had to offer. Who knows how long it had been sitting on the shelf, or what the transformation from reality to nightmare had done to it. I kept walking, eying the boxes with a mixture of longing and tempered restraint, promising my poor stomach that if I got out of this okay I'd treat it to a nice, big meal at Happy Burger when it was all over. That seemed to settle her for the time being – she quieted down at least.

I'd made it to the back of the shop – more dolls here, more posters. Really, I was almost starting to regret coming in here, it didn't seem like there would be anything useful. I looked at the little rabbit dolls for a minute, thinking they were almost. . . cute, in their own way, when I heard something crash from behind me: It was like someone had knocked down something heavy, ripped it right off the shelves and let it slam down on the floor. I spun around fast, clutching tight to my trusty knife, but the radio stayed quiet. Clearly it wasn't a monster. . . but that didn't necessarily mean that I was alone in here. I didn't want to imagine what a ghost in this place would look like – ghosts were scary enough, I'd seen my fair share of horror movies to know that, and I didn't particularly want to come across one when I was sure that if they could manage to knock boxes off of shelves, they could do some heavy damage to me.

I took a tentative step closer to the sound of the crash, hoping that my estimate of no white noise equaling no nearby monster was correct – who knew when the radio would die on me? The beam of my flashlight struck the scattered and strewn boxes, hearts-, rabbit- and duck-shaped chocolates flung carelessly on the ground – an open box lay between them and I wasn't quite sure what to make of the mess. I mean, it wasn't gross, actually it could prove quite helpful, but that didn't change the fact that a handgun didn't belong in a box of cookies. Was the ghost or whatever trying to help me? Well, I was grateful, but I couldn't help but feel as if it were an ominous sign, that things would only get worse, and my knife wouldn't be enough to handle it.

If that's what it meant, I'd be a fool not to take it – I wasn't familiar with guns, never having handled one in my life, but I wouldn't turn down a useful tool when it presented itself to me. The pros outweighed the cons, and though I didn't pretend to know my way around a firearm I knew that if it really came down to it I could figure out the basics: point, aim, shoot, brace yourself for the recoil. Repeat. It was also heavier than my fists, and I'm sure if I botched the whole shooting aspect of the gun, I could at least use it to hit a monster. Crouching low, I scooped the gun up with my sticky right hand; it felt loaded, but I had no way of checking it. With my luck I'd probably fire it at my face or something. I flicked my switchblade shut and stuffed it into the back pocket of my skirt for safekeeping, thinking if it _really _was a matter of survival, I'd whip it out and start wailing on the bad guys in no time.

There was nothing else in this room for me. Stepping over the strewn boxes and candies, I crossed over towards the door and walked out.

The semi-circle came to an abrupt end thanks to a barricade of garbage. I didn't want to risk climbing over it, in case I pitched sideways and found myself falling over the railing into the darkness; just to be sure, I tested the weight of one foot on the base of the trash bin and felt it flinch. Strange, that metal should act that way, but I didn't need to push my luck any further. I took my foot off it and backed away. I looked round at the walls carefully, trying to find a hidden door, and came across another wooden one decorated with an arrow – it seemed to be pointing at an attraction beyond the wall, something about a roller coaster. . . I doubted it was still functioning, and it's not like I was here on some pleasure trip, but maybe it would lead me closer to an exit. Maybe if I got to a higher point I could find my way around easier – though the darkness didn't lift this thought higher than a brief, fleeting hope.

A blast from the radio sounded the moment I opened the door, making me wish I had left it alone and waited back in the souvenir shop. I tensed, bringing the gun up but mindful not to let my finger rest too heavily on the trigger. The last thing I needed to do was waste bullets. I strained my ears hard and picked up something that sounded. . . wet, like someone wading through muck and sticky slime, along with low, feral growls. It didn't sound like a dog, but something far larger, and much worse. I stood there, stupidly, trying to weigh the options of standing here, waiting to see how close it was or charging through the door and rushing to the other side, towards another area or perhaps somewhere to take cover, and I wish I had realized just how stupid it was to stop dead: but then, how was I to know how long its arms were, and how far its reach? My voice sounded shrill and tinny when I screamed, briefly blocking out the wailing of the radio in my pocket as a large, painfully swollen and flesh-colored appendage came soaring at me – it slammed into the wall next to me, ramming hard against the bricks and splintering them. Dazed, I crouched and covered my head with my hands, not wanting shards of cement to hit me in the face, or worse, catch me in the eye and blind me, and in my moment of panic I let the thing get closer to me – it grunted, low and horrible, and shifted closer, the same wet, slushing sounds growing louder all the while.

I knew I'd be dead meat if I stayed crouched on the floor, and the same, bloodlust-y and predatory sense of mind sprang into action like a defensive instinct. Maybe it was adrenaline kicking in, straining me to move, to fight, but I didn't focus too hard on the _why _so much as the _what I was going to do to this bastard_. I grabbed the handle of the door and pulled it shut, hoping against hope that it did not have hands nor the brain capacity to work a lock, and held my gun up high – from the quick look I'd gotten of that. . . thing, it was at _least _five feet taller than I was, a towering behemoth of nastiness, and to land an effective shot I'd have to hit at its torso, which was easily as long as I was tall. The radio snapped off as quickly as if I'd lowered the volume, and I could only faintly hear the monster grunting, angrily, deprived of my company. I counted to fifty in my head, lulling the monster into confusion (or so I hoped), as it wondered where I'd gone and what to do now. Feeling the adrenaline move easily through me, coaxing my body to move swiftly to action, I threw open the door with all my weight and could have cried out in joy when I felt it slam against the monster. The door shuddered and I heard its hinges shriek, nearly break off entirely: the monster wasn't knocked down, but it was stunned, its massive arms rising almost protectively, though it had no hands to cover its face, as it stumbled back, nearly toppling over. I twisted myself round to face the monster and began backing away slowly, delighting when my finger found the trigger, my left hand steadying the base of the gun as I took aim at its chest and fired – the gun barked loudly, the recoil sending a jolt through my arms. It sank into the swollen flesh and spattered a jet of blood onto the floor – I was surprised to see, in the weak light, that it was red, like a human's. I didn't expect it, nor did I let it stop me. I kept firing – two rounds, three, four – _when would this thing go down?! _- five, six – _how many bullets were left in the gun? _- and the monster shuffled forward, moving unsteadily on its long, thin legs. On the seventh bullet it paused, shivered, and fell forward; I took a few more steps back just to be sure it wouldn't land on me and crush me, and felt my throat tighten as I heard it moaning, rattling, its limbs and head twisting from side to side as it tried to push itself back to its feet. I knew it was in the throes of death, that it would only take perhaps one more bullet, or a few hard kicks, to the head to snuff it out for good, and with a grim, hard expression I walked closer to it, staring at the wide stretch of mouth that was its only facial feature as its lips parted and gasped, retching and shrieking with all its might, before I lowered the gun as close as I dared to get and pulled the trigger. It splattered into the monster's skull, shattering it, sending a spew of blood that stained the toes of my boots and my exposed legs. The bones in its head cracked and it jerked to a halt, its death rattles halted, its moaning ceased. The radio had likewise shut up.

I'd nearly wasted all my bullets on this damn thing. I didn't think the gun could hold more than ten or fifteen bullets at a time, and I hoped that I didn't come across more of these nasty things; I wouldn't stand a chance with only a couple bullets left. As the adrenaline rush died down, bringing me back to myself and to the sickness that had been building in my gut since the start of this nightmare, I closed my eyes and spoke quietly to myself, trying to reason with the fear and coax the panic from my mind.

"It moves slow, Heather, you can run around it or dodge it easily if you have to. Stay out of reach of its arms, turn off the light so it doesn't know where you are, and move quietly." There. That sounded like some pretty reasonable advise. I opened my eyes and breathed in deep, wincing slightly at the coppery, strong scent of blood that flooded into me, and carefully avoided the puddle of gore at my feet as I stepped forward, looking around for an exit. Fleetingly did I realize that I'd probably ruined my boots, that there was no way I could take it to a cleaners without explaining how all those peculiar, rust-colored stains got on them, and no way in hell could I return them in this condition.

"Stop thinking about fashion at a time like this, you idiot," I scolded myself harshly, my eyes landing on a metal gate that was the only way out of this place – unless I wanted to topple over the ledges on my sides: there was no fence here, no protective grating, nothing keeping me from stumbling into the abyss below me. I hoped one of those monsters with the giant fists didn't hit me over one of them. . .

The gate howled as I pushed it forward and walked ahead, deeper into the amusement park – the radio blared to life instantly and I could see another one of those dogs sprinting, aimlessly, around the area. I didn't hear that wet, squelching noise, which caused a moment of relief to flare up inside, relief that died as instantly as it was born, for there was a worse sound in the not-so-distant distance: the most horrible noise I'd ever heard (and I've heard _Metal Machine Music_. . .). It wasn't screaming, at least it didn't _sound _like any screaming I'd ever heard before, but that's the only way I can think to explain it. A high-pitched, echoing, ear-splitting howl, like some terrible monster in pain. I didn't want to stick around long enough to see what it was – I didn't think I could bear the sight.

So I ran. I ran past the dog, though it trained its eyes on me instantly and lashed out, leaping at me and snapping at my feet. I ran from the sound, that horrible, chilling scream that was getting closer no matter how fast I urged myself to move, and it was with an almost heart-stopping relief did I realize that I was nearing a staircase – the roller coaster! I raced up the metal stairs two at a time, letting my left hand clutch tight to the guard rail, as it'd be a shame if I toppled on my face and found myself easy prey for the dog and that disgusting, screaming thing, and felt my lungs burn with exhaustion. The stairs rounded once, twice, one more time, no end in sight, but I kept moving, the light bobbing and its illumination scattered due to my hasty steps. It might has well have been off for all the use it did me, and this only encouraged the overwhelming sense of panic and desperation that ran rampant inside me. I didn't know what I'd do when I reached the top – hide out in the control room? Find something even worse up there? - but I kept on regardless, not caring at that point but to put as much distance between myself and the screaming monster as I could.

Just my luck, the control room door wouldn't open. I hammered and slammed my shoulder against the door but no go; it didn't move, didn't even give in the slightest. I didn't want to waste any time – I was sure the dog would be able to maneuver up the stairs easily, and I wasn't going to bother hoping that whatever was making that ghastly noise couldn't manage the walk, so I searched frantically for another way out, any way out.

The little metal gate separating the platform from the roller coaster tracks stood slightly ajar, as if it were a subtle sign, an invitation.

It wasn't exactly the safest exit, but it was the _only _one. Besides, the train wasn't on the platform, and though I could hear the chains rattling I figured it was probably roaming around on the course, perhaps already reaching the end – it wouldn't be coming back to the top any time soon, anyway, because the rest of the tracks had been completely torn away, as if the hand of God came down and ripped them off, tossing them aside like toothpicks. I wanted to keep running, my panic at the helm and squashing any ability to reason, but the sight of all that darkness churning below me, opened wide like a mouth ready to swallow me up, made my pace lessen to a steady walk. My feet clanged on the metal and wood; I didn't worry too much that it wouldn't be able to support my weight. If it could handle the tremendous baggage of a train, it could certainly put up with me.

The track twisted and turned, lowering down on an incline and winding around the course. I could hear screams in the distance, loud bursts of sound that were silenced instantly, but as the radio didn't make a noise I tried not to think too much of it, tried not to let it frighten me more than it already had. Warily I tread onward, my hand tensed around the gun, my left hand held out to steady my weight, though it shook fiercely, could have thrown me off my balance if I wasn't careful, and I squinted into the darkness ahead of me, trying to detect a sudden drop or any sign of danger looming just out of sight. I couldn't see any – but I could _hear _something.

I came to a stop, fearing, absolutely dreading, the very thought, hoping beyond my wildest dreams, almost to the point of prayer, that it couldn't be what I thought it was. There was no way the roller coaster was going backwards, no way in hell it could come back -

But it was. I could see the headlight ripping through the darkness like a knife, cutting into it and my eyes, making me twist my head to the side. The only quick exit would be to jump – and I couldn't bring myself to risk it.

_Jump!_

_I can't!_

_Just do it, goddammit! You'll die if you don't!_

I couldn't, I just couldn't – I _wanted _to but my body, it wouldn't move. It was as if I were melded to the spot, absolutely rooted to the metal and the wood, my body like stone, though my mind flailed and urged, over and over again, to do something, to jump, to save myself -

And then the train hit. The pain was instant, and beyond any pain I'd ever known: I could feel my body flatten, could feel the metal wheels slice and sever, cutting down to my bone and shattering what was in its way. My head flew back and I could feel the skin from my chin up to my forehead peel back, coming off as cleanly as one skins a piece of chicken. The hand holding the gun was torn into ribbons, the fingers hacked off, the weapon clattering, useless, to the ground and spinning, beating back and forth beneath the seats of the train. My eyes, there was no possible way I could see, there was no way they could have stayed in their sockets unharmed, but they were as wide as can be, almost as if on a reflex I'd opened them as far as I could, taking in what was surely my last sights of the world. My ears, impossibly, they were still working, too. I could hear with terrible clarity the rattling of the train as it flattened me to a pulp, the sounds of my blood splattering and my body groaning, my throat gurgling as it was sheared, tattered, torn to ribbons.

The world grew hazy, like a television with a bad connection. I could almost see the static burst across my vision as my eyes failed me, the last train car doing what the others had failed to do and wiping my eyes clean from their sockets. I had no sense of pain at this point, no sense of thought, no sense of much besides the dim, somewhat faint feeling that I was being dragged off somewhere, that whatever remained of my body was carried back to be repaired and restored. . .

And that's when I woke up in Happy Burger, whole, unharmed, and completely alone.


	5. IV: Earth Intruders

**"****neurosis only attaches itself to fertile ground where it can flourish." --** Bjork, "Innocence."**  
**

**Chapter IV – Earth Intruders**

* * *

My senses returned gradually, my forehead ringing and mind full of incoherent fog. Slowly I lifted my head from where it lay in the makeshift pillow my arms had made, amazed that my body could still function after what it'd been through. I parted my lips and groaned wearily, the feeling rushing back into my arms, down my chest, and through my thighs and legs.

I straightened, sitting up tall in my seat and sighed until all the tension had seeped away, every last aching thread of it, practically unraveling myself in the hard, wooden chair. I turned to squint out the window: a blood-red dusk greeted me, the crimson glow sliced into halves by the drawn-shut blinds. The handgun was gone, along with the radio and flashlight – had they even existed at all? I looked closely around me; no pistol in sight, no bloody knife – and no book, either. _Well, that was ten bucks well spent_, I thought, rolling my eyes.

Fragments of my memory returned, quick and brief flashes of action, cutting into flesh, bones being snapped – wasn't it my skin?, my bones? The wail of static, the crazed yelp of a dying animal, something screaming, splitting the still air, making it resonate with the force of its horror. . .

But I had died. I was sure of it – and yet, here I was. I was certain I'd bought dad's book, too, but obviously that wasn't around: had it really happened? Did I just dream it all? I wiggled my fingers, vastly relieved to see that they still worked and weren't hanging on by a thing string of muscle and sinew – had I imagined the roller coaster hitting me? Fat chance: The pain was real enough, and too intense to be an illusion. I had _seen _my blood, smelled it, felt it coating me like hot paint – there was no way that could have been fake. My imagination was pretty active, but no way was it sick enough to come up with that.

"What a nightmare. . ." I muttered, my voice strained and tense. Easily, this one topped all the others I'd had by far – terrible, yeah, all of them were like that, but at least I'd stayed _alive _and physically unharmed. Worried that this would become a new trend of horrors, I looked out the window again, flattening my hands against the table's surface. It helped me feel grounded, made me stable myself; slowly my body returned to some kind of focus, the memories of the nightmare turning into just that, a faded memory, nothing that could harm me if I didn't let it.

There weren't many people in the restaurant – which I thought odd, since it was around dinner time and normally there would be a few stragglers, looking for a bite to eat, or a family of some kind that didn't feel like cooking. The employees were talking quietly to themselves behind the counter, not noticing my presence. Obviously I hadn't made any type of scene, or I'm sure they would have come over to ask if I was alright, or promptly evict me from the premises.

A small flash of silver glinting near my chest caught my eye; the passing shadow of a car had set it off, letting the sun back in the window and highlighting the necklace I wore: my locket had come loose. I loved this thing, it was so simple yet so pretty at the same time, and it was a gift my dad had given me for my birthday last year; we didn't have a big Sweet Sixteen celebration, having been in the middle of another move, but he made sure to take me out to a nice restaurant and give me the locket all wrapped up in tissue paper and a small box. I never took it off, that's how much I loved it. I wasn't exactly a jewelry type of girl – I didn't bother with rings or anything on my wrists besides a watch and little orange wristlets – which I wore more out of habit than any fashion consciousness. There was something about this locket that I really liked, though; probably because it was the only piece of jewelry I owned, or maybe because Dad had told me to take good care of it and keep it close to me. There was something inside it, too; a strange, blood-red stone that he said was for good luck. . .

I tucked it back into my shirt and stood up, thinking about Dad and wondering how much time had passed since I'd last spoke to him. And where was Katy? Didn't she try to find me? Why didn't she try to wake me up? Thinking I'd call Dad first, I stretched out the last bits of sleep and sluggishness from my arms, shook my head to clear it a little more, and walked out of Happy Burger.

The mall was still bustling, which didn't really surprise me: it was a weekend night, and I imagine people had things to buy, though the crowd had thinned out some. Teenagers hung out in corners, talking loudly and laughing just as raucously, while parents clutched to their children's hands and steered them through stores and past shelves of bright, flashy advertisements. I knew the phones were close by, somewhere near the bathrooms, and figured I'd try there before heading up to _My Bestsellers _to ask Katy why she'd completely blown me off.

I fished out two quarters from my pocket and punched in my house number; I didn't have to wait long, Dad picked up on the first ring.

"Arnold?" His editor's name. Clearly he was still waiting for him to call – I smiled and chuckled, a little amused at how anxious he sounded.

"Dad, it's me."

"Heather! Just as good." I could hear the smile in his voice, and it only made mine widen, made my voice soften and calmed down my frayed nerves. Finally, I was back in reality, back in the world I knew and belonged to – hearing my dad's voice soothed me like putting a salve on a blistering burn, or working out a knotted muscle: all the pain and tension just melted away.

"Yeah. Sorry I didn't call sooner. . ."

"Lost track of the time, huh? Having a little too much fun window-shopping?"

"Yeah, I guess I was," I chuckled again, though somewhat sheepishly this time. I scratched the back of my head and felt bad about lying to him – I mean, I wasn't doing it maliciously, but I knew I'd only worry the hell out of him if I told him what really happened. I'd tell him all about it when I got home; maybe he'd know what to do. "Anyway, I'm coming home now."

Suddenly, I remembered why I'd been sent out in the first place – _Gravity's Rainbow! _I nearly groaned, thinking about how it'd disappeared completely. "Oh, I didn't get that thing you asked me to –"

"That's fine, dear – Katy called, asking when you planned to stop by but I told her you'd already left. I explained it all to her, so she said she'd set it aside for me. I'll pick it up tomorrow."

"Okay. . ." How odd. Just what happened to me? Was I sent back in time? Now _that _was a scary thought; not only could my dreams kill me, but they'd shift me backwards to a point in time where I was safe, completely erasing everything I'd done leading up to the moment of the shift. I didn't like that at all. . .

"Be safe, okay? You know I hate it when you take the subway alone."

"Okay, I will." I said to him, though it was a mechanic reassurance – I was too busy wondering what the hell had happened to me to put my heart into it.

"I love you, dear."

That certainly helped. "I love you, too, dad."

And with that, I hung up the phone – there was nothing more to say, really. So Katy had called, and I'd already left? Or had she called again? I could imagine how angry she'd be and I immediately felt guilty, because I'd been the one to unintentionally blow _her _off. Well, it wasn't exactly like I planned for this to happen, but I couldn't tell her that, she had no idea what was wrong with me. . .

Just then, an old man stepped out from behind the wall and stared hard at me – a horrible stare, piercing and cold. I nearly gasped and certainly jumped a bit, startled by his presence. He seemed creepy enough – trench coat, hat pulled low over his brow, his face smeared with a five o'clock shadow – just what the hell did he want?

I stepped aside from the phones and held my hand out to them, letting him know he was free to take over and stop staring at me anytime he felt like it. But he shook his head, slowly, mechanically. That wasn't what he wanted at all.

Frightened, I took one last, quick look at him and took off at a trot down the hall, towards the bathrooms – he couldn't follow me into the ladies room, now matter how much of a creepy old guy he was. But he certainly was following me all right – I heard his footsteps chatter after mine, falling heavy on the floor and out of sync with my own.

"Heather!" That stopped me in my tracks. It's no good when a stranger knows your name. Dad always told me to watch out for these people. . . though he never said why. I mean, I wasn't stupid enough to wear my name on a shirt or necklace, so maybe it was just your typical parental warning. "I need to speak with you. My name is Douglas Cartland," he spoke his name slowly, stretching out the syllables and shifting his weight, turning to the side a bit as I glanced over my shoulder to take in the sight of him. "I'm a detective." He finished at last, the cherry on the weirdo cake.

Yeah, sure. Detective. Wasn't I just a little too old to try and lure in the back of a van? "A detective?" I asked, sounding like a total bitch and not caring – I didn't want to give this guy any more of my time, nor did he deserve it. "_Really?_" I paused and he nodded, almost pleased to see it had been so easy to convince me - "Well, nice talking to you," I said at last, letting him know with every sneered syllable that it certainly _wasn't _nice and I had no plans to let it continue. I turned away from him and kept walking, somewhat faster this time.

But before I could get very far. . .

"Hold on," he said, almost like a frustrated whine, the type fathers have when they deal with bratty children. I rolled my eyes and sighed. I don't know why I stopped, why I even bothered. "There's someone who wants to meet you." _What? Happy Harry in your Director's Pants? I don't think so._ "Just let me have an hour – no, a half-hour of your time."

Screw that. I turned around again, working the ol' smarmy charm. "My daddy always told me _not _to talk to strangers. You must know that, yeah? Being a _cop _and all?"

"I'm a detective, actually."

"Whatever," I said, because really, what did it matter?

"This is _very important_. It's about your birth."

What the. . .? So I came out of my mother's uterus, she died, and I was raised by dad. Big freakin' deal. Was he hunting me down for an unpaid bill or something? Shouldn't he bother my dad about this crap? "I'm not interested," I turned for what I hoped would be the final time and spoke dangerously low, really unconcerned with the whole deal – but there was something. . . twitching inside me. Something moving, deep in the pit of my stomach. An annoyance, a frustrated spasm: why did he want to talk to me about _that_? What business was it of _his_?

He was still behind me, still tracing me – I was running out of space to escape to. The thought bothered me significantly. . . but at least I still had the bathroom to duck into and hide. I spun around and waved my hand, frustrated and completely at a loss for why he was being so damned persistent. Wouldn't his work be more effective if he was, you know, not scuzzy and strange about all this? Maybe I'd give him that half-hour if he didn't sneak up on me like that and seem so determined to stalk me down the hallway. "Are you still _following me?! _Do I have to scream for help?!" I glared at him, letting him know that such an act definitely wasn't below me. I'd scream my head off if I had to, if it meant getting him the hell away from me.

He held up his hands and took a small step back, looking flummoxed and definitely timid at the idea of me calling for help. "Sorry!" He gestured towards his feet, which were rooted to the spot and definitely not moving. "I'll wait here."

With great relief did I turn towards the door and slip inside, fighting back the urge to slip the lock shut; he'd certainly hear the click and I didn't want him to try and force his way inside. Besides, what if someone else was in here with me? How'd I even get a chance to explain to them that no, sorry, you can't leave that way, some weirdo detective is out there and I can't risk him sneaking inside and killing me.

Still, I didn't want to leave it unlocked. . . I would be a little more at ease if I knew he couldn't just walk in. I figured I might as well check to make sure I was alone, to spare myself the humiliating and surely awkward conversation of my creepy stalker man, and walked closer towards the first stall – it was open, and definitely unoccupied. I tried the next one, but that was open, too – the third, and last, was the only one shut. I knocked three times, and got a double, slow knock in response. _Guess someone's in there_. Looks like I'd have to leave the door unlocked and find another way out. . .

Something on the mirror caught my eye – a bright, almost glowing, red stain. . . no, it was a symbol. Pretty ballsy place for graffiti, but there was something different about it. It didn't look like random nonsense words scribbled by some junkie or loser kid with nothing better to do. This seemed deliberate – well, I guess graffiti is deliberate, too – and almost. . . important. I walked closer to it, mesmerized by the strange design: One circle inside of another, with bizarre, rune-looking words in between. In the center of the second circle were three, smaller ovals, two in the top corners, one at the bottom. The ink or whatever kind of paint that was used to sketch it on the mirror still trickled down the glass, hitting the top of the sink – whoever had done it, they only could have done it a few moments ago: the paint was still fresh. _Did the woman in the stall paint this_? I thought, staring, totally spellbound, at the weird glyph. . . something about it made my body tense, my hands shake and. . . my head, god it was throbbing, like someone had split an ax down the center and exposed my brain, which had swollen, painfully large, inside my skull.

I had seen this before. . . don't ask me where, or how, but I knew I'd seen it somewhere. In a book? On some kid's tattoo? No. . that wasn't it. This was more important that some Wiccan symbol or some stupid inking etched into a person's skin. But for the life of me I could not remember, and trying to remember was so painful, so unbearable, that I had to squeeze my eyes shut, grit my teeth, and breathe hard to make sure I didn't faint. What was going on? What the hell was this all about – my birth, what the hell did he mean by that? And who wanted to meet me?

I put my hand to my forehead and tried to steady myself. I didn't need this, I didn't need another headache and a mind full of questions that could never be answered. He was just trying to trick me, trying to lure me out with him. . . yeah, that had to be it. This jerk didn't know anything about me – _but he knew your name! - _and surely there wasn't someone who wanted to meet me. It was just some scam, an updated version of "I have candy in my car" or "I'm selling puppies, would you like to see some?" But what a strange thing to start such a line off with, "It's about your birth." Just how many people questioned their births, or thought of it as something noteworthy? I sure didn't. I wasn't worried that my dad couldn't find the birth certificate, nor that he hadn't held onto the umbilical cord, like some creepy parents do – we had moved around so much, it was no wonder that he lost the certificate, and it wasn't like I couldn't contact someone and get a copy issued to me. . .

"Oh, shut up, Heather, this is exactly what he wants," I said to myself, forgetting that someone else was inside the bathroom with me. Now that I'd convinced some stranger taking a pee that I was crazy, I figured I'd better high tail it out of here – but how? No way was I going to go past that Douglas guy again; with my luck he'd follow me down to the subway. . . Maybe if I got to Katy, she and I could find a back way out and she could give me a lift home.

I glanced around the bathroom, and my eyes lit up when I found the window – if I stood on the sink I'd just be tall enough to slide out of it. The drop down to the ground couldn't have been _too _far – I was sure I could manage to land on my feet. So I walked over to the last sink, hoping the woman didn't choose now of all inopportune moments to step out of the stall, propped one leg up on the basin and wrapped my hands around the wooden awning. It was just big enough for my to slip my shoulders and head through – I won't pretend it didn't creep me out. I could just imagine myself, stuck and squalling, trying to explain to security why I thought crawling through the window would be more sensible than opening the door. . .

When my shoulders and a good part of my chest were out, I had to quickly shift my grip down to the outside, lowest part of the window, holding on tight to the brick and concrete as I slowly pushed my knee through the opening, just wide enough to accommodate my chest and bent leg. Dangling the left outside the wall, I scrunched down as best I could and tried to turn, hoping I didn't topple out and sprain my ankle or something – but just then, the sound of a latch pulling back made me jump, nearly scream: the woman was leaving!

I moved fast, and in my haste I completely lost my handle both on the situation and the window: I landed in a crumpled, bruised heap on the pavement outside, moaning and gasping from the sudden impact.

_Well that was stupid. _I sat up and held my head, still aching from the sight of the glyph and trying to remember just where the hell it was from. I stretched out my legs, gave my ankles a good turn and twist to make sure nothing was damaged too bad, and winced when I did the same to my hands and arms – I'd landed painfully on my right elbow, and the shock of it rippled down to my fingers. Checking the source of the discomfort, I noticed a small scrape on the dry, cracked skin – it wasn't deep, but I was already bleeding. I patted my hand against it and hoped it would start clotting and heal over soon. Just what I needed. . . a busted elbow to match the pounding in my head.

I brought myself to my feet and glanced ahead of me – I could see a faint pile of boxes in the distance of the alley, and I figured I may as well take a look, perhaps I could use it to climb over the fence and bypass the entrance, subway, and weird detective altogether. But it was no good: the debris was too cluttered, and the fence too high, that it wouldn't help at all no matter how I shifted it or stacked it up. And with my luck being how it was today, I'd probably slip and do some greater damage to myself, maybe break a wrist or something if I tried to climb over.

Giving up I trotted off in the other direction, not exactly at a run, as my legs were still sore from toppling out the window, but fast enough that I could easily break into a sprint if Douglas or that woman came across me. I don't know why I'd be afraid of her, but the fewer people I had to explain this weirdness to, the better. I'd have a hard enough time convincing Katy that she had to get me out of here unseen without making her think I was paranoid.

That's if she was still around. . . it was getting a little late, and I don't know how early she showed up at the store. She might have gone home already. Maybe Tom would still be around, and he could get me out of there. He seemed nice enough – I mean, if he was good enough for Katy, he couldn't be that bad of a guy, but I'd never really talked to him before. Somehow I got the impression he wasn't an easy person to talk to, if he didn't already know you, and I'm not sure how he'd handle me telling him some detective was after me and I had to sneak out without being found. That wouldn't go over too well.

So I kept walking and, god, I couldn't help but laugh at what was blocking my way now – a van. Someone had thought it was bloody brilliant to park it in the alley, but hell if I knew why it'd be there in the first place. Thinking back to all my silent barbs at Douglas, I stepped back from the van and backtracked – there _had _to be an open door somewhere, maybe another window. . .

I tried the first door I came to and the knob twisted, opened without delay. I stepped inside tentatively, thinking it'd just make my day if I ran into some mall worker or security guard, and I didn't think I'd be able to talk my way out of this one. I'd managed to come up with a few good cover stories before, with my friend Jen when we went on a few "thrifting and lifting" sprees, but my head was too frazzled to be able to concoct something decent this time. I just wanted to _go home_, and though it was childish to be so frustrated by it, all these delays and setbacks were really getting on my nerves. Screw this headache, that detective guy and whatever he had to say about my birth – I wanted to get the hell out of this place and find my dad.

The hallways were blissfully deserted. . . but this creeped me out a little. No sound could be heard, no footsteps, no voices, no muffled sounds of music or sign of life anywhere. Doors were jammed – which made me think back to my nightmare and my heart started to beat frantically, hoping that I hadn't passed out again or walked right into another screwed up reality that would mean my death. And only one was locked – I wondered if I'd find a key somewhere. . . so I kept at it, wandering the halls and pushing my weight against the doors that wouldn't open, hoping like hell that all these twisting, unrelenting knobs didn't mean what I thought it meant.

Finally, another door opened – and back out to the mall. Only. . . something wasn't right. The lights were dim, and most of the shops were dark and locked up. Could they really be closing this early? I pressed my face to the glass and squinted into the darkness, trying to make out any sign of a hold-over employee or lagging shopper, but it appeared deserted. Actually, the only shop still somewhat open – though not by much, the metal grating that sealed off most stores was half-way pulled down, barely letting a spray of light shine through on the floor – was a small clothes shop. _Boutique Marguerite_. Cute name. I hesitated and knelt down, staring through the half-way ajar door, trying to see if anyone was hiding out in here. Had they been pulled into the nightmare, too? I thought of Katy and Tom, my stomach doing flip-flops. I hoped they'd be all right – as for that Douglas guy, well, whatever. Maybe he'd get out, maybe he wouldn't.

I crawled the rest of the way through the door and rose to my feet when I was sure I was all the way through it, glancing around. . . it was abandoned, barely lit like the outside hall. I sighed and thought of turning back, heading the way I'd come, when something on the floor caught my attention.

A handgun.

Now, I wasn't too familiar with these things, so I had no idea if it was the same as the one I found in my dream, but it sure _looked _the same. . . I rushed over to it and knelt down, lifting it up in my hands and staring at it, dazed, wondering why it was here. . . I wouldn't have to _use _it again, would I? And why the hell would someone bring a freakin' gun to the mall?

There came a sound, a sucking, rushing noise, like something being peeled, wet and sticky, like something _eating_, and I turned – my stomach did as well. That. . . _thing _from my dream, that tall, faceless, wide-lipped and swollen-armed _thing_ was here again, eating what looked like the poor bastard that had the misfortune to be the only one left in the shop. It was tearing at the victim's face, splashing blood and chunks of skin over onto the floor, tearing a large chunk off the face and chewing on it in its large, gaping mouth. I shifted, holding the gun out in front of me, steadying it like I'd done in my dream. . . I didn't know how long it'd be satisfied with its meal, and I didn't want to make any sudden noise or movements to draw its attention to _me_. I sure as hell didn't want to end up like that.

Whoever was up there _really _had it in for me – the monster. . . the thing, whatever it was, it abandoned its meal and turned to me. I still didn't see any eyes on the thing, so I had no idea how it noticed I was there. Maybe it didn't need eyes, ears or a nose – maybe it could just sense me somehow. Well, that was great. I'd be screwed no matter what I did when I came across these things.

It shuffled towards me on those thin legs, impossibly supporting its massive upper body and gigantic arms. Its head twitched and writhed, moving as if it had jelly for a neck and no bones at all, walking towards me with a purpose, blood dripping down its front and smeared in its every step.

"Stay back!" I yelled at it, holding the gun up so that it aimed at its long chest. I took a step or two away from it, though I knew I was running out of places to go – it'd have me up against the wall in no time, considering how wide its strides were.

_Yeah, like it's gonna listen to you. It doesn't have _ears_, Heather. And I'm sure that girl told it to stop before it ripped her face off._

Of course, the monster didn't stay back. Didn't do anything of the sort – it kept at it, kept walking towards me, swinging its thick, heavy arms and twisting its head, almost as if it were amused, laughing at me, a silently sneering predator honing in on its prey.

"Get the hell away from me!" I shouted even louder this time, panicked out of my mind and itching to pull the trigger. I wanted to blow this thing full of holes, pump it full of lead, drop it in a heap at my feet and pound the life out of it. How _dare _it show up here. How _dare _it do this to me. . . After another second I did just that, screaming again at the sudden bark of gunfire and the recoil that sent the gun nearly flying to my forehead. The monster jolted but kept walking, blood dripping down from its wound – and I fired again. And again. Growing more desperate with each shot, I kept squeezing the trigger and blasting the thing full of holes, until – the gun clicked. Again. And again. I lowered it, breathing fast. It was _empty_.

_Just how strong _was _this thing?!_

I looked back up at it, tears in my eyes, my lips fumbling and trembling, sure as hell I'd be dead meat in no time. But the thing stopped walking – its head still twitched, still writhed, but it wasn't walking anymore. And to my great surprise, and massive relief, it tumbled, loudly, nearly crashing into the floor, collapsing under the pain and its own great weight. It twitched and spasmed, blood pooling around its front in a giant circle, the same sucking and retching sound I'd heard in my dream when I killed the other one blaring out of its wide mouth – and suddenly it was still.

My heart pounding, my mind reeling and lungs aching with the force of each breath I took in and let out, I shook my head, staring in disbelief at this. . . this. . .

"What the hell _is _this thing?"

A monster. . .that's what it had to be. It was definitely not a costume, and it was too tall to be a human. And I'd certainly never heard of an animal like this, so. . . that only left one last thing. Monster. But, it sounded crazy. . . ridiculous. I shook my head, dismissing the idea of my own dwindling sanity: I _knew _I wasn't nuts. I know what I saw – I was looking at something that couldn't be human, and that I hadn't heard of before in my entire life. No way would an animal like this go unnoticed for long – besides, being as dangerous as it was, you'd think the public would get some kind of warning about it. . . Right?

Either way. . . it was dead. I'd killed it. This monster. . . I killed it. Just like the one in my dream. Although I seemed to have lucked out with this one – if the gun had any fewer bullets in it. . .

I looked up, grimacing and retching at the sight of the body laying in a smear of gore and grime on the floor. I didn't want to get any closer to it than I had to: I could tell from here that it was dead. I didn't want to just walk away. . . but what else could I do? How would I possibly explain this to the authorities? "Yeah, officer, she was eaten by a monster and I found a gun but it was too late to save her."

Yeah. Real convincing.

There were some bullets laying on a bench a few feet away from the corpse. I honestly didn't want to move any closer to it, much less pass around the monster, worried it was only playing possum and would lash out and slam me down when I was least expecting it, but I couldn't very well run around with an empty gun. That'd be stupid, especially if there were more of them around. . . Bracing myself for the stench and the feeling of warm, rising bile shooting up my throat, I walked as fast as I could over to the bench and snatched up the boxes of ammo, stuffing one in my vest pocket and opening the other. I couldn't delay it much longer – I had to figure out how to reload one of these things if I wanted to survive.

Think, Heather. . . how many stupid movies had you seen in the past with people firing off guns and reloading them? Quite a lot, actually, which I guess didn't say much for my taste in films. It seemed easy enough, but that was movies for you: just remove the spent clip, slap in the new one, and you're good to go. Right? Something like that.

I ran my finger along the side, near the trigger – it found a small button, which I assumed that would release the magazine. The empty clip fell out quickly, onto the floor with a loud _ping_. I winced and held my breath, not expecting it to fall out so fast, and tried to steady my hand as I inserted the new clip and pushed it up with my left hand. The gun _clicked _quietly, confirming the deed was half done – didn't I have to pull back a slide or something? To make sure it reloaded? I felt so awkward doing it, knowing I better catch on quick if I wanted to get home safe and sound, but I held tight to the front of the gun and drew back whatever it was that would help reload the pistol – it clicked again, and the slide rushed back to its original position. The gun felt heavier in my hands somehow, reassuring me that it was ready for any task I'd put it to, just as long as I was.

I didn't _want _any of this. As stupid as it sounded – and trust me, it was pretty stupid – I didn't want to put up with any of this crap. I just wanted to _go home! _I wanted to be back with my dad, safe in my apartment, safe in his arms, away from this. . . this nightmare, this monster. . . this weirdo detective and this bloody, ravaged corpse as my only company. Like an idiot, like a little girl, I burst into tears, covered my mouth with my hand to filter the sobs, but they were loud, piercing, choking rasps of grief and terror. I sank to my knees and hunched over, my shoulders drawing up tight so they nearly touched the tips of my ears, and I pressed my face against the cold, tile floor, weeping and wailing. I called out for my father, for my home, for _something_, _anything_, to keep me safe and watch over me through all this, wishing with all my heart that I would make it through okay, and that the others would, too.

Stupid, stupid. All of it. . . all of that wishing. All for nothing. No amount of tears or crying could wake the dead, or turn on the ears of a deaf god. I wasn't sure She was even listening to me anymore. . .


	6. V: Art Thou Player, or Audience?

**Chapter V – Art Thou Player, or Audience?**

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Some people find their home in God, others in love, their jobs, their children – or even in greedier things like money, fame, possessions or power. My home was my father – probably dangerous, to attach so much of myself, so much emotion, into something mortal, but there never came along a better substitute. I missed out on the chance to have a mother through circumstances out of my control; friends were passing, non-enduring, gone within a year or two, and I had even worse luck with love. Hard for any other boy to compete with the high pedestal my father was on – not that they tried very hard. . . Boys my age were so unimaginative, and bestial, slobbering idiots. Their mind on their crotch and their eyes on your tits; now I know why Katy dated 'em older. . . So maybe I shouldn't be so bothered by the slightly uncomfortable fact that while some girls my age were going on their second child, my hymen was as in-tact as the Virgin Mary's.

That was another thing that rang hollow to me – religion. My father didn't raise me under any particular faith, but he wasn't close-minded or prejudiced against them, either: just wary, I guess. I never asked him about it until I got older, after having previously gone through the motions of presents on Christmas, chocolate bunnies and jelly beans on Easter, and never giving up anything for Lent or walking around with an ashen crucifix smeared on my forehead. My father. . . didn't seem interested in religion, the salvation of the soul or the afterlife. His editor and his agent both would joke and say that anyone who'd read dad's novels would know on where he sided with the statement, "God is dead." My father would just smile faintly and politely change the subject.

The only thing I could figure out was that something had happened to my dad to make him shun and avoid religion like some bad cliché of vampire and garlic or the Bubonic plague. He never spoke of god, unless it was to say "dammit" immediately afterwards – nor had he ever quoted any passages of the Bible; never said Grace before every meal or tucked me in after saying my prayers – and since he never mentioned these things to me, I never questioned it and was raised completely unaware of faith, of Jesus, or Allah or Buddha, besides what I'd learned in history class. I never felt like I was missing out on anything, either: my dad was a physical constant in my life, a dying son of God sent to Earth to redeem mankind's sins was not.

I never prayed; just found myself wishing and hoping instead, because if I was going to ask a favor, I might as well ask a burning star in the sky: at least I could _see_ the star. And as I said, this lack of faith never bothered me until I got older.

Arnold had been over for dinner again – one of dad's oldest and only remaining friends who'd bothered to keep in touch after all the times we moved on such short notice – when the topic came up. Arnold had asked dad if he heard about some nut in the papers, a guy named Walter Sullivan, who, apparently, had bumped off ten people in the span of a few days – one of them being a priest of some religious cult in his home-town. I remember how tense and sick my dad looked at the mention of the town's name: Silent Hill.

"What's Silent Hill?" I asked Arnold – I couldn't have been more than eleven-years-old at the time, sullen and detached from the world around me thanks to the flux of early puberty and constant location changes. Arnold was one of the only other adults I talked to, and trusted, besides dad and the teachers at school – he was such a constant figure in our house that I came to see him as something of an uncle; a bushy-haired, short, loud-voiced uncle that was as kind to me as if I was his own family.

"Just some little resort town up in Maine," he said, waving his hand and sliding his mashed potatoes around on his plate. Dad was looking hard at him, his hands tensed on the table, his lips like a tight, thin line of pink. "It used to be nice – Valerie and I went there all the time for vacations, just to relax, you see – but it's been getting weirder and weirder lately. Seems like the religious nuts are coming out of the woodwork and wrecking the place."

"But one of them's dead," I said, not bothering to pretend I was even somewhat interested in the roast beef, string beans and soggy, gravy-laden clumps of potatoes sitting in front of me. I wasn't hungry, anyway.

"Yeah, Jimmy Stone. Apparently he was right in there with all those freaks, settin' up altars in the backs of shops and orphanages where they took in kids. At least he didn't bite it like the others, hoo man, lemme tell you: being shot was a _mercy _compared to what happened to those poor bastards. Those Locane kids for instance –"

"I hardly think this is appropriate to talk about in front of my daughter, Arnold," my dad cut in, his voice like chips of ice that made Arnold sit rigid and tense in his seat. I stared round at him, frowning; did he think I was some stupid kid who didn't know what death was about?

After a moment Arnold shook his head and laughed, taking a sip of the wine he bought over and smiling slyly at my father. "C'mon, Mason, it's all over the news – Heather's bound to hear about it sooner or later. It's not like the stuff you write make for suitable bed-time stories, y'know."

"No, but I also don't think they'd make good table talk." My dad stabbed a piece of roast beef with his fork and brought it to his mouth, frowning at it as if it'd done him a great, personal wrong. "Why'd you even bring this up, anyway?"

Arnold chewed thoughtfully on a fork-full of string beans, taking his time with digesting it and wiping his mouth on the napkin before answering. "Well," he said, slowly, as if carefully choosing his words the way someone walks through a field of mines. I guess he knew this was a pretty touchy subject for my dad, "it was that story you dropped off last week, hombre, that got me thinkin' of it. Pretty weird, how you write about a cult that takes in and sacrifices children when a couple days later this crap hits the papers, huh?"

I'm pretty sure I dropped my fork at this point, staring, open-mouthed, from Arnold to my father, completely at a loss for words. I'd never bothered to read any of my dad's stories – it felt like I'd be intruding on something personal, a diary entry or a secret, private moment that wasn't mine to see, and so when he said he was working on something I'd normally keep my distance, let him construct in peace and inquire politely how the process went. To hear Arnold blab something like this seemed almost _rude_, not to mention pretty disgusting: is _that _what my dad wrote about? Is that why he was so well-known by all those goth freaks at school? Is that why that crazed fan came after us six years ago, forcing us to be on the move at the drop of a hat?

The tension around the table was so thick it was nearly smothering, a haze that choked and throttled. My father was looking at Arnold with anger – or was it disbelief? - but the smile never left Arnold's face.

"Now, I'm not _accusing _you of anything, Mason. I just think it's weird, that's all."

"Yes," my father said, a note of finality ringing loud and clear in his voice: this conversation was over. "Very weird."

I didn't get a chance to read the story until some time later, borrowing it from an enthusiastic English teacher, promising an autographed copy when I was done with it.

What I remember most of it was how hopeless it seemed – all of these adults meant to take care of, instruct, guide and love the children were the very ones the kids needed protection from. And they did it all under the guise of their faith, using god as a common out for the horrible things they did, humiliating, deceiving and sometimes abusing the kids in order to prepare them for the Mother's Blessing. It was disgusting. One of the kids, the narrator I guess, was so destroyed by what she endured that she prayed for death – prayed for her own total destruction, would rather snuff out every last breath and every aching moment than endure another second of life, of the uncertainty of improvement. Can't say I've ever felt that way before – at least, up until this point of my life I hadn't felt that way – but reading her words. . . my dad's words, told through hers, broke my heart. Had my dad ever felt that way? Had he known someone who did? And what was it about this little town, Silent Hill, and its religion that frightened him so?

I'm never very good at telling stories. This girl, the one who prayed for death: she got her wish. Or rather, god heard her prayers and answered them, gave her exactly what she wanted; every person connected to her, every person _in _that same town as her. . . all of them vanished, completely disappeared as if they were erased from the Etch-A-Sketch of the universe, nothing more than fuzzy dust collecting at the bottom, waiting to be reassembled. The girl, she died, too, split apart and scattered into nothingness, into vapor – and she was happy. Finally, she was at peace. _There was a god after all, and she was merciful_ – those were the last words of the story.

Apparently, the message behind the story was how the sanctity of innocence, of the only entirely pure creature on this planet, that being a child, can be destroyed and with that the sanctity of life. If you destroy a childhood, you destroy a life. This girl, she didn't care who died or who she dragged down with her, as long as she went down with the ship. She didn't care about the aftershocks or the falling debris that would crush bystanders, as long as she was the one who took the full force of the blow. Death was a welcome reprieve from what she went through – death was a mercy-killing for the people who did this to her.

It was horrible. . . a person like that, a person _turned into _that. I just couldn't imagine it. It made me feel sick. You hear about sociopaths or religious fanatics on the news or in movies all the time, but it's something else when you _read _about it. . . and when the person writing it turns out to be your father. Like I said, it was too eerie, too personal and private, and I couldn't stand to look at the story again when I was finished with it.

Maybe it sounds stupid. . . but this girl, the one my father created, she must not have found a home. Either in a person, a place, an emotion – she didn't have it. Everyone needs a home. Everyone needs to feel loved, secure and protected, a place they can escape to when the world comes crashing down on their heads, trapping them under rubble and rock. Certainly I was experiencing that first hand right now: the monster still lay dead in a puddle of its own gore at my feet, its victim, several paces ahead of me, likewise stewing in its own juices. The mall around me, transformed into some freakish nightmare, an abomination of what a mall _should _be. And here I was, holding a gun, and half regretting, half anticipating, the time when I would use it again.

I regretted it, because I didn't want to turn into this girl in my dad's story – I didn't want to be the type of person who didn't care about the lives I took or what amount of casualties I racked up around me, as long as I was able to escape some small amount of pain and suffering in the process. I didn't want to be a heartless killer – but really, what other choice did I have? It's not like I could talk sense into that. . . thing I killed; it's not like it would give pause and rationalize over a truce. I had to kill it. And I had to keep killing it – them, all of them – until I was safe. Until I was home.

That's why I anticipated it – these things, monsters, nightmares, creatures of hell and beyond, they were all invading _my _personal space. Not even just getting up close and personal with me by nearly snapping off my legs or impaling me in the face, but the fact that they were _here_, where I belonged, and where they certainly did not, was more invasion than I wanted. They didn't belong here. They could die for all I cared – and I would do it. I would get rid of them, if it meant I'd be that much safer, that much closer to home. . .

Still, no matter how I tried to rationalize it to myself, I still felt no better than that girl in dad's story. I still felt like a monster, a cruel, merciless fiend, and the thought made me sick to my stomach. Why should I be feeling guilty for something that wanted to kill me, anyway? They wouldn't give another thought to flattening me on the ground and turning me into pulp: but that's the thing, I didn't know if they were _capable _of thought. I doubted their emotional capacity was broad, and so I had the advantage over them in this aspect (if feeling guilt for doing a reasonable act of self-defense was advantageous).

I guess the moment I _stopped _feeing guilty would be the best time to worry: now, I had to get the hell out of here. Had to find my way back home, up out of the nightmare, up out of the rabbit hole, escape the Red Queen's clutches, and back to the tree with Dinah, where I'd be safe and sound, unharmed and whole.

I wiped my face dry with the back of my hand, the one not holding onto the gun, and steadied myself – I'd only be wasting my time, and preparing myself for some serious danger, if I let myself freak out like this. A little worrying never really hurt anyone, and in a setting like this it was completely understandable, but there was no way I was going to let myself fall to pieces over every little thing. The monster was dead, I survived, and now I had to push on. And if I met more along the way. . . well, all the better for me, the worse for them. I'd get through this. I _had _to. Dad was waiting for me.

The exit door at the back of the shop lead to a stairwell, dimly lit and strewn with a mess – crates, garbage bags, wooden pallets. . . No way could this have been allowed to stay in the "real world." I could see some manager flipping a bitch over it in no time, get some kid to throw it away – and it seems like they just dumped it in front of the basement stairs. . . Well, I never liked basements, anyway. No loss, not being able to go there. I continued up the stairs, horribly aware of how loud my footsteps sounded in the silence that rang, like a gong, like a shot from a gun, pressing against my ears. I hesitated before opening the door on the floor above, wondering just what was behind it, where I would end up next. . .

I lifted the gun up and braced myself to fire it, taking down three gulps of air before twisting the knob and opening the door; I was grateful it didn't creak, and opened it so I could slip inside without making too much noise. If there was a monster here, it'd be better to stay as quiet as possible. If there was another person. . . well, I had no hopes for that, but a girl can dream can't she? I shut the door and waited, almost dreading having to turn the corner – and then I heard it. It sounded. . . like a lamb, but there's no way one could be here, and anyway I doubted any lamb in this place would be harmless. There was something deranged about the way it whined, almost deformed, its growl mechanic and repeated like the cry of a bird, or a baby. I held the gun tightly in my hands and felt my pulse quickening; I couldn't see it anywhere but the hallway split into two paths, one in head of me, one drifting straight to the left. No way I wanted it to get closer to me to find out what it was, and I forced my feet to move, one agonizing step at a time, until I was clear of my hiding space.

It was walking down the left hallway. I turned and felt my heart pounding, my mind screaming; I barely could hold onto the gun, and nearly dropped it from shock and disgust. This _thing_, it couldn't have been taller than a child, but it looked the furthest thing from human I'd ever seen: its flesh was a pale purple, almost lavender, and the red veins stood out prominently, coursing blood through its disgusting body. It had no harms, just a sleek body that extended into a small torso, and bent, frail looking legs: its head. . . It only had one eye, and nothing else; not a nose, a mouth, or any distinct facial structure. And yet it was making that noise, that same lamb's cry I'd heard when I first walked in. But _how_? Where the hell was its mouth?

No time to worry about that now – it was walking towards me, its steps uneven and its body tilting from side to side, almost as if it were top-heavy and unused to the force of walking – something else that reminded me of a baby – and I didn't want to find out what it would do if it got in striking range. I had no other choice: I lifted the gun, planted my feet on the ground and pulled the trigger. It was hard to get a good shot on the thing, for how small it was and how it wobbled, but a slit of blood appeared in its calf, and its legs trembled. The bullet must have only grazed it, though, because it didn't fall, but it shrieked. And god, what a noise. . . I aimed again, focusing on that disgusting head, on that one, huge, blaring eye, and fired once, twice. Its head flew back, wobbling and its body exposed – I shot one more bullet into its naked, thin torso and was incredibly relieved to see it slump to the floor, the blood collecting around it like a puddle. But it wasn't dead yet: the thing, it shrieked and writhed, kicking its legs as it tried to right itself without the aid of arms; its head moved up and down, sounding more like a distressed child than anything else, and with a look of revulsion I moved closer to it, striking out with my foot before I could process the urge to silence its cries. It barked one final, rattling cry and grew still, grew silent. More blood collected on the toe of my boot as a result and I backed away from the increasing spill of crimson.

I hated myself in that moment – hated what I'd done, hated that I was _looking forward _to using this stupid gun, but reason kicked in, brutal and cruel in all its rationality. There was nothing I could do: it wasn't a human, it wasn't an animal, and I certainly didn't have to extend my pity for its disgusting appearance into pity for taking its life. It was a monster, a terrible thing that had no place here. I was doing myself a favor, getting rid of it – and doing it the same favor, too, taking its deformed, half-life from it. Still, I hated having this power – hated having this gun, this ability to strike down and spare lives with a simple squeeze of the trigger. What right did I have to make these decisions? Who the hell was I?

Though cruel, reason won out in the end. I couldn't stand there mourning and griping forever. . . but I didn't want to run into anything dangerous again anytime soon, so I backtracked and headed down the other hallway, the one that ran straight from the first corner I'd turned. The hallway was long and the doors locked or jammed; I forced my shoulder against them but they didn't budge, the knobs twisting mockingly in their sockets, the contents of the room denied to me. Starting to think coming down here had been a total waste, I tried a door on my right – and it opened. I peeked my head inside to take a quick sweep of my surroundings, and saw that it was a supply closet, full of boxes and shelves stacked with various items.

And it had a dog in here, one of those split-headed, snarling, wrapped in bandages dogs. I promptly shut the door and backed away from it quickly, hearing the dog howling and charge towards where I had just been.

Well, I could forget about that place for the time being. I didn't really need whatever was in the closet, anyway. . . not bad enough to kill a dog. I never liked dogs, yeah, but that didn't mean I wanted to pump one full of lead any time soon. If I could avoid the confrontation, I would, gladly. I had bullets to save – for that gross lamb thing, for that tall, long-armed monster. . . .

I kept walking down the hall, thinking I'd better be sure it was a complete waste before heading back the way I came, when again, another door opened on my right. I waited after turning the knob, listening hard; I didn't hear anything from the inside, but that didn't mean it wasn't hiding, laying in wait. Again I stuck my head in and looked around quickly: it was another supply room, though larger than the one with the dog. The shelves here were all over the place, stacked with cans, tools, books, boxes – all sorts of things that were of no use to me. The good thing, though, was that there were no dogs in sight. Nothing of any kind attempting to ambush me.

I breathed a sigh of relief and shut the door behind me, eying the supplies hopefully, knowing that I couldn't effectively use any of them, but the sight of them comforted me. Maybe this was really the mall after all, and the monsters were just. . . I don't even know what. I tried not to think about them; the fact that a room like this was here proved that some sort of normalcy still existed and I was grateful for it. I walked alongside one of the shelves, examining its contents, and was relieved to see two more boxes of bullets and what looked like a health drink nestled comfortably on one of the racks. I stuffed the bullets in another pocket of my vest and took a look at the health drink, not sure what to make of it. I didn't exactly want to consume anything in a place like this, but it looked harmless enough – besides, it was with the bullets; whoever supplied me with those was probably trying to help me, in some sick way, and I didn't think the drink could be _that _bad.

Still, I didn't want to drink it anytime soon, and it certainly wouldn't help calm my nerves or ease my tension. A magic potion, it was not. I put it back on the shelf regretfully, thinking that if I really needed it, I could come back for it, or keep an eye out for any others along the way, and turned to face the rest of the room.

Stacks of crates were piled high in the back of the room, a wooden pallet at its base. I walked closer to it and saw a flash of light glinting – there was something metal under the pallet. I dropped to my knees and peered underneath: it was a key, stuck far enough away from my fingers to be of no use (no matter how far I forced my hand it didn't come any closer). I sighed and sat back on my heels, momentarily dismayed and more than a little pissed at having hope sit just out of my reach – quite literally – when I remembered my knife. Well, it helped me out in the dream, hadn't it? Maybe it could prove useful here.

I patted the pockets of my vest, knowing for sure that it wasn't there, as I'd have felt it when I dropped the bullets inside, and it was with a half-hearted hope did I put my hands on the pockets of my skirt: two in the front, one in the back – there on my left side, tucked almost as if someone had dropped it in there, was the knife. I flicked it open and cast an eye over the blade: it was clean, and the handle, too. Definitely hadn't been used to slice up any monsters. . . which either meant I really was dreaming, or I was going nuts.

Placing my hands on the cement floor, I reached out again to grope for the key, this time dragging the tip of the knife along the floor, trying to coax the key close enough to snatch in my fingers. It took a few tries, desperately swiping at the air beneath the crate and cursing, furiously, under my breath in a stream that would have made my father incredibly pissed at me, but finally I heard the blade scrape against the concrete and the metal, gliding the key closer. I clamped my hand over it and extracted it with a smile, standing up straight once it lay in my palm.

_My Bestsellers _was written on the length of the key.

"Katy. . ." I said, my heart breaking at the thought of her stuck here, if she had found safety or not. I didn't want to think of her being chased by these monsters, I'd rather she and Tom had gotten out of this hellhole safe and sound, or they'd found a place to hide together. Maybe that's why the key was hidden like it was – were they hiding out in the store?

I pocketed the key and left the room, distracted and thinking about poor Katy – the shriek of a lamb, a deformed child, pulled me from my internal musings. Two more of those gross things were flopping down the hallway towards me, perhaps called by the death cries of their brother. I swore furiously and didn't have time to steady the gun – I didn't want to waste the bullets, anyway. So I took off – running in between them, dodging their flopping heads and making sure to put on a good burst of speed so that I sprinted down the length of the hall, putting as much distance between them and myself as I could. They didn't move too fast and I'd be at the end of the hall before they even got half-way through theirs, at least. . . so I hoped. I came to the crossroads and paused; going left would be useless, I'd just come from that way. I guess I'd take my chances with the right.

Side-stepping the corpse of the first lamb-thing I killed, I raced down to the door at the end of the hall, barely registering the NO SMOKING sign tacked to the back of it, and pushed it open with all my might. I was back in the main section of the mall. . . on the second floor, by the looks of it. Just near Helen's Bakery and the bookstore. Remembering the key in my pocket, I turned and made a sharp right, racing passed the line of stores.

It was here again – that tall, wobbly-headed, long-armed freaky thing from the boutique, and my dream. It didn't have a victim to distract itself this time – and I was disgusted that I was half hoping it would – and shuffled towards me, its arms trailing lazily behind it, its body long and erect, those impossible legs having no trouble supporting its massive weight.

And yet, it was slow. I didn't notice that in the dream because I was too busy being petrified at the sight of it. Frightening though it was, and certainly dangerous, I could still move around it as long as I was careful, and run from it without having it tailing closely behind me. It'd close the distance easily, with those long strides, but I had speed on my side – and an opposable thumb that could help open doors. I hadn't seen such a feature on this thing.

I ran straight towards it, knowing that I had a few moments to spare before I veered to the right and squeezed by its side; sure enough, the monster paused and bent its legs, almost attempting to crouch as it reared back one of its long arms and roared. I threw myself to the right and crashed into the metal grating lowered in front of the shop, forcing myself to keep moving, to keep pushing on by the thing while it was distracted. I broke out into a fresh sprint once I had made it clear of the monster, the sight of My Bestsellers something akin to a saintly vision in front of me: the lights were on, and it glowed almost heavenly in all this madness. I wrenched the key from my pocket and shoved it into the lock, twisting it from side to side and struggling with the door. Another one of those things was coming – I could see it on my left, only a hundred feet or more away.

I pulled open the door and closed it behind me with a snap, fumbling with the locks on the back and quickly running to the nearest shelf for shelter. I had no hopes that the glass could hold these monsters – and just my luck, the storefront was comprised of just glass and a few metal frames around it – but it would hold them off for the time being, affording me a few moments to catch my breath, to hopefully find Katy, maybe Tom, and get the hell out of here.

In the moments I waited to catch my breath, I noticed that the sound of the monsters had disappeared – which wasn't so strange, I was inside a store, after all, of course the sound would be muted, but the one on my left had seen me, and the one I'd outrun surely knew where I was, too. . . So why weren't they pounding on the glass? Hesitantly I emerged from one of the stacks of books and got close enough to the glass to peer out, but still a good distance away should something decide to come crashing through and surprise me. I could see one of those things pacing awkwardly up and down the hall, no destination in mind, just aimless wandering. . . Had it been patrolling the corridors, and only just came across me? Was it really so simple-minded that it just attacked whatever came across it, and let it fall off the radar of interest once it was out of sight?

Well, I wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. . . whatever that meant. I just knew it applied to this situation. I turned away from the glass and made my way back down one of the rows of shelves, listening hard for any sound of life hiding somewhere in the store.

My feet kicked at a pile of books scattered on the floor. I looked down and immediately felt guilty, not wanting to damage any of their merchandise, and realized that it was several collections of Shakespeare. Guess whoever knocked 'em down wasn't a fan. . . I bent down and retrieved them, one by one, stacking them in no particular order back on the shelf – I'd let Katy or Tom worry about their positioning, though I didn't think they cared much for it just now – and continued on towards the back of the shop. The counter was the only reasonable place to hide, and so I approached it cautiously, keeping my gun in hand but pointed down, hoping it wouldn't alarm them too much. My steps were slow and light; if they were hiding behind there, I didn't doubt they'd hear me, but I didn't want them to think I was some monster rushing in to attack, either.

And yet. . . I was getting my hopes up again. Hoping for a familiar face, hoping for something that I could equate to normalcy in a place that was anything but, and a part of me knew that when I turned to face the back of the counter there would be no Katy crouching, petrified and confused, beneath it, and no Tom, either. I was only marginally disappointed when I saw the empty air, the blank, unoccupied space. I was stuck in this nightmare alone.

The exit to the back of the shop caught my eye and I stomped towards it; yet the knob wouldn't budge. It didn't fiddle like the other locks, the doors that wouldn't open no matter how I tried to force it, and I saw that there was a number pad alongside it, along with a note taped to the wall. Could Katy have left it for me?

"Quit dreamin'," I muttered and snatched the note off the wall, quelling that hope before it flourished into something terrible.

"In here is a tragedy--- art thou player or audience?  
Be as it may, the end doth remain:  
all go on only toward death.

The first words at thy left hand:   
a false lunacy, a madly dancing man.   
Hearing unhearable words,  
drawn to a beloved's grave---  
and there, mayhap, true madness at last.

As did this one, playing at death,   
find true death at the last.   
Killing a nameless lover,  
she pierced a heart rent by sorrow.

Doth lie invite truth?   
Doth verity but wear the mask of falsehood?   
Ah, thou pitiful,  
thou miserable ones!

Still amidst lies, though the end cometh not,  
wherefore yearn for death?   
Wilt thou attend to thy beloved?   
Truth and lies, life and death:   
a game of turning white to black   
and black to white.

Is not a silence brimming with love  
more precious than flattery?   
A peaceful slumber preferred  
to a throne besmirched with blood.

One vengeful man spilled blood for two;   
Two youths shed tears for three;   
Three witches disappeared thusly;   
And only the four keys remain.

Ah, but verily... In here is a tragedy---   
art thou player or audience?   
There is nothing which cannot become  
a puppet of fate or an onlooker,  
peering into the cage."

"Oh, what the hell is this?" I scowled and reread the note – it sounded like a riddle, and just my luck it was in Elizabethan prose. I hadn't read much of Shakespeare, just enough to get by in English class, and though I wasn't exactly thrilled at his plays, I didn't think they were too bad, either. Just not something I particularly liked. Apparently, whatever code was hidden in this note would get me through the door to the other side. What a pain. . .

I read it for a third time and walked back to where the Shakespeare books had fallen, staring at their spot on the shelf, glancing down now and again to trace my eyes over the riddle, my mind racing as it tried to fit some pieces together.

_Hearing unhearable words. . . A false lunacy. . . _"Hamlet?" I wondered aloud, taking a stab in the dark. My English teacher was pretty big on that play, had gone on about it for a couple weeks in class and even made us write an essay about Hamlet's supposed cowardice. I got an A on it, I remember that, but my knowledge of the play beyond what I'd babbled about in the paper was slim. Well, Hamlet pretended to be crazy, I know that. . . and he saw his father's ghost when no one else could. . .

_She pierced a heart rent by sorrow. . . _Well, a lot of people kicked the bucket in Shakespeare plays. Wasn't that what they were known for?

_Doth lie invite truth? Doth verity but wear the mask of falsehood? _. . . Whatever.

_A game of turning white to black, and black to white. . . _For some reason that made me think of _Othello_. I hadn't read the play, just knew there was a movie about it with that guy from _The Matrix_, and some crappy modernized version with Julia Stiles that came out a little while ago. I read that part again, and wracked my brain for whatever small knowledge of the play I had: there was that guy, Iago – the same name as Jafar's parrot in _Aladdin_ – who lied his head off and tricked Othello out of jealousy.

_Is not a silence brimming with love more precious than flattery? _Sure, why not. Though everyone likes to hear how important they are now and then.

_One vengeful man spilled blood for two_ – Othello? Didn't he bump off his wife and some other guy? - _Two youths shed tears for three –_ whatever that meant – _three witches disappeared thusly _- Ohhh, _Macbeth!_ - _and only the four keys remain._

"Alright, if I figure this out, I'm pretty freakin' amazing," I said with an attempt at a smile. I liked riddles, sure, but not when there was danger pressing in on me from almost every side. I took a look at the books on the shelf again – knowing what they were would probably help me out a lot if I wanted to solve this puzzle – and took a mental note of their titles. _Romeo & Juliet, King Lear, Macbeth, Hamlet _and _Othello_. I glanced down at the riddle and rearranged the books accordingly; I had no idea what the number code was for the punch-pad in the back of the shop, but the first step was to arrange the books as they appeared in the riddle. _Hamlet _went first. . . I guess those two youths shedding tears were Romeo and Juliet? Sappy bastards. . . I tucked the book on the shelf next to _Hamlet _and paused.

_White to black, and black to white_. Well, Othello was black. "What the hell," I muttered and pushed the book next to _Romeo & Juliet_.

That just left. . . _King Lear _and _Macbeth. _Well, the last part of the riddle was about _Macbeth_, so by a process of awesome elimination that could only mean _King Lear _went before it. I put them on their places on the shelf and stepped back, not sure what I expected to happen next. A number to fall out of the sky and light the way for me? Yeah, fat chance. . . I looked from the numbers on the sides of the books to the riddle scrawled neatly on the paper. The second to last stanza. . . could it be a clue about the code? _Only the four keys remain_. Guess so.

Looks like I'd have to do some math. Fantastic.

_One vengeful man spilled blood for two_. . . I looked up and noted the number on the side of the _Hamlet _book; it was the Roman numeral for four. So, four plus two? Four doubled? Eight? _Two youths shed tears for three_ – _Romeo & Juliet _was the first book, numerically, so that left it at three, if I was multiplying these damn things. _Three witches disappeared thusly_ – _Macbeth _was book number three. Did I have to forget about it all together? _Only the four keys remain_. Seems like it.

"Eight, three, five, two," I said to myself quietly, taking note of the only two books left after _Macbeth _was scratched off. "Eight, three, five, two." I walked towards the back of the shop again and dropped the note on the counter, no longer needing it. Besides, if I was wrong, I was afraid I'd tear at it in frustration. I pushed the corresponding numbers on the pad and nearly cheered with relief when I heard the door click, unlocked. Happily I twisted the knob and walked through the open door, almost allowing myself the hope that Katy would be hiding behind the door, ready to congratulate me on my awesome riddle solving skills. Maybe Tom had wrote it? He was smart enough for that confusing stuff. . . .

But neither of them were behind the door. No familiar face waited to greet me, to congratulate me or otherwise take note of my presence. Halfway down the hall stood a woman in a long, dark dress, her hands at her sides, her expression difficult to read. She was looking at me with. . . was it happiness? A smug satisfaction? Had she been waiting for me to show up?


	7. VI: Never Forgive Me, Never Forget Me

"_There's something inside me that pulls beneath the surface – consuming, confusing." -- Chester Bennington_.

**Chapter VI – Never Forgive Me, Never Forget Me**

* * *

Well, whoever she was, she was human – and I hadn't seen one since that weirdo Douglas guy down near the bathrooms. I didn't take too much time to look over her appearance so grateful was I to see something _normal_, and thinking back on it I bet if I took a closer look at her shaved eyebrows and bare feet (_in a place like _this_? Yuck_) I'd have rethought the whole "approach and ask for help" notion that crossed my mind.

Anyway, I doubt I could've stayed clear of her for long. She seemed intent to find me. . . considering all that she did later on. But I'm jumping ahead of myself, right? Right.

I could've cried from relief at seeing a person after all those. . . things, those monsters, and I rushed towards her, abandoning all hope of finding Katy or Tom hiding in the hallway. The questions were pouring out of me in a deluge, a rush of anxiety and mingled ease – maybe she could help me, or me her. "What's going _on _here? What happened to this place – to _everyone_? Those weird monsters. . .?" I demanded first though my last question trailed off, unsure of how to continue, or even if I should. What if she hadn't seen them? It'd be just my luck to come across like a nut-job to the only person who seemed capable of helping me. So I decided to shut my mouth and see if she caught on.

She looked so calm and composed: her face betrayed no hint of tension or nervousness, and she seemed like she'd been waiting for me to come through that door and have this chat with her. I came to a stop a few feet in front of her and waited, hoping she'd be of some use.

She turned her head slightly, her cold, blue eyes – like chips of ice stuck into her sockets – surveying me carefully. Her expression seemed. . . doubtful, and slightly disappointed; had she been expecting _me _to have the answers? I got the impression I wasn't what she had anticipated. Well, whatever. Not like it mattered to _me _what some stranger thought. After a brief pause, in which I wondered whether she was slow or deaf – or just dramatic – she answered: "They've come to witness The Beginning: the Rebirth of Paradise, despoiled by mankind."

Great. I get sucked into a nightmare world and all I have for company are monsters and a religious freak with no shoes. _Perrrrfect_. Anyway, I'd hate to mock anyone's beliefs but this just made no damn sense: the monsters were here to "witness" Paradise? Hell, half of them didn't even have _eyes_, much less a working brain to process such a thought.

I scoffed at her, sneering and twisting my face angrily – this was the _last _thing I needed to hear. "What are you _talking_ about?"

Again her eyes narrowed. Again, she seemed disappointed. How had I let her down? Well, she was certainly a disappointment to me. I didn't need any cryptic cult B.S. when I've got demon dogs breathing down my neck, thanks. "Don't you know?" Her brows creased and lifted. If she had eyebrows I'd bet one of them would be furrowed at me. "Your power is needed."

"How should _I _know?" I asked, jabbing my finger against my chest. These were not the questions I wanted to be asking. "Don't rope me into your mumbo-jumbo; I don't even _belong_ here."

She took a breath and opened her hands. Her voice's intonation was strong, important, as if she were revealing to me a wonderful truth – just not the one I wanted to hear. "I am Claudia –"

I imitated her movements and tone of voice, at my last tether of patience with her. "_I don't care_."

Claudia's lips tightened – I didn't care how much I bothered or pissed her off at this point. There was no way she could do anything to me. Besides I had a gun, and that switchblade. I could make her wish she never opened her mouth should she try anything dangerous.

She paused again and finally carried on from where I'd interrupted her. "Remember me, and your _true _self as well. Also, that which you must become: the one who will lead us to Paradise. . . with blood-stained hands."

Wonderful. So I was some pied piper of whatever belief system she held? And remember. . . her? Was she the "someone" Douglas was talking about, the one who wanted to talk to me about my birth? Could she be. . . ? No, forget that. If _she _was my real mother, I'd have to kill myself from the horror of it all. Besides, she was British – or at least, she had a British accent. Don't know if she was just pulling a Madonna or what with that one. And from what dad told me of mom, she definitely was American born and raised.

Still. . . what was her deal? Why was she so intent on dragging me into her psycho-babble? My _power_? And, hell, I wasn't going to lead anyone anywhere – unless it was to the first train out of this place, and I'd only be leading myself if I ran across more people like her.

I decided to backtrack, cool it down a bit and see if being nice got me anywhere. More bees with honey than vinegar, right? Not that I _liked _bees. . . She could think what she wanted, she could see me as some high and mighty savior – as long as she gave me some _answers_. Something concrete that made sense. If she knew why these monsters were around, maybe she had something to do with it – and if that was the case, no gun or knife or bitchiness on my part would be able to keep me safe.

"Claudia. . . did you_ do_ all this?" I waved my hand around me and looked at her, my eyes tense. It only just dawned on me how frightening a zealot could be – especially one with the power to transform things into hell. Who _knows _how she managed to cart all those creatures into here, or where she got them.

Her head turned away – this, apparently, had been the greatest wound of all. She shut her eyes and seemed to pray; whether it was for the strength or patience to tolerate me, I didn't know. I never figured it out. When she opened her eyes again and looked at me, I knew it was _her _turn to be smug. Her face was perfectly composed in it, the very image of pretension. "It was the Hand of God."

This is where it got weird – and trust me, it was plenty weird before. I felt this. . . spasm run through me, like a wire twisting tight from the back of my skull all the way down through my throat, my chest, and settling somewhere right above my groin. It felt like something was _pulling_ me, writhing inside, struggling to get out, to grasp at air. The pain exploded, igniting every nerve, racing beneath the surface of my skin, setting my muscles and bones on fire. All I could do was grit my teeth and groan, grinding the pearly whites against each other as I tried my best not to scream. It was too overwhelming; it overpowered me: I felt my knees give way and I collapsed to the floor, barely able to open my eyes for the searing pain and the tears that clouded them. I clutched my hands to the side of my head and pressed down hard, hoping to shove whatever was trying to force its way out back in, back down, as if my feeble hands could do anything against a pain this severe. In the haze of my vision I saw Claudia laugh – she was _smiling_, the bitch, and she turned and left me to my pain, to my agony that looped and expanded, growing stronger with each step she took and the contempt building inside me.

"_Wait_!" I pleaded, though I wasn't sure why – desperation, probably. She was the only other person I saw here. . . and though she didn't have anything helpful to say she sure as hell knew a thing or two about this place and what was going on. She even seemed pleased to see me collapse like this, as if she'd been expecting it. Damned if I knew why.

My plea fell on deaf ears – she kept walking, slowly, savoring in the sounds of my strangled screams and pitiful moans, almost foreign to my own ears. I had no idea my voice could make these noises, that so much anguish could be contained inside of me, that I could endure a pain this intense. I thought my heart might burst at any moment, burst from the strain of it all, and I'm sure that I began to cry, weep really, in earnest, tears flooding down my face as I wished with all my strength to force this away, to get to my feet. I shut my eyes and the blackness was worse, all these images flooding through like subliminal, rapid-fire messages. I couldn't make sense of any of it, and when I tried to focus on one particular scene it was replaced by another: flashes of red (a red dress, a seal, a bottle flying through the air, a red nurse, red, red on my skin, my skin _peeling_, oozing, bleeding), a glimpse of hands (hands tugging on my own, urging me to follow, to obey; hands holding me down, slapping me, sticky hands that slid over my skin; hands unraveling, untying, tentatively touching and prodding at my wounds, at me: I _was_ a wound, a festering sore; hands lifting me gently, lovingly, holding me to his(?) chest; hands _burning_, aching, blistering and crackling before my eyes) _eyes,_ I saw those, too (eyes brown like my own, staring at me in fear, blinded in the flash of a headlight; eyes like gold, surveying me with pity, horror, disgust; eyes like ice, chips of them, full of tears and begging me for –) and _black_, so much black it was like a maw, a gaping Void that threatened to swallow me whole, suck me down into the Abyss and never let me go, a blackness so absolute, so pure, that it shredded light and being and flesh.

And somehow, so clearly it was like a light thrown over a once-shadowed image, like a saving beacon thrust out to help me, I could see my father – he was running through the darkness, defying it, fighting against it. Flames collapsed and burst all around him, raining down from the Black Sky, and he ignored it all, clutching something tight to him, running towards the speck of light that had appeared before him, running towards the only hope he had left.

I thought of my father and the pain subsided, dying down slowly like water poured over a roaring flame, quelling the beast and shutting it back in its cage. My vision grew more clear as the last tears rolled down my face; I could feel my strength returning to me, rejuvenated by the love I had for my father, and the love he felt for me. I _had _to get through this, I _had _to fight it. I had to see him again.

I held my hand to my forehead and shook out the last flares of pain, waiting until they faded into mild throes that I could ignore before taking a deep breath and standing upright. I tried to make some sense of what I'd just seen, all those images, those flashes of sights and sensations, but it all fell through my fingers, back into the Void from where it had come. I couldn't understand any of it, and soon enough it was gone. . . shut up with the beast that had spawned it. I stared at the spot on which Claudia once stood, wondering and thinking hard on her words: again, my search turned up fruitless. None of it made any sense to me. "I don't _get it_!" I whined to no one, to the empty air, to her absence. My voice sounded weak and tearful, a little girl crying in the face of adversity, unable to stop its onslaught. I shuddered at the sound, so fragile and hopeless did I seem, and leaned against a nearby door, catching my breath and thinking back.

She wanted me to remember her – obviously, we'd met before. . . but I couldn't recall her face, her name, nothing about her. She was a stranger to me through and through: she was a good ten years or so older than I was, so we definitely weren't schoolmates, and I'd never belonged to any church or sect in my life, so it was doubtful she was trying to get me to rejoin the flock. And my _true self_? What crap was that? _I _was myself; there was no one else but me in here, in this head and heart, and I sure as hell wasn't faking anything: nor was I some Leader of Paradise or whatever she said.

_Blood-stained hands_. . . I looked down at them now; they trembled and flinched, so I forced them into fists and hoped that they'd stay still. They'd definitely been pretty gory in my dream back in Happy Burger, and even now they only had flecks of it scattered across the surface, traces of the monsters I'd fought to get here. Was all this fighting a part of her Paradise? Was I _helping _her and these things get to it by killing them?

But no, that didn't make sense – I was supposed to fight these things, to kill them. I don't know how I knew this, but it was as clear as day to me, the only sound reasoning that made itself known in all this confusion. They were out to get me after all, and it was only logical to attack something that wanted me to push up daisies and be worm food. It was the only bit of sense I could hold onto right now: kill or be killed – like that old saying, survival of the fittest. It sounds so trite and cliché, but really what other truth was there in a place like this? Darwin would've had a field day in here. . .

I glanced up at the door that was supporting my weight and scowled; _Yggr Drassil? _I'd never heard of such a store. . . or the name. It didn't even sound like English, just gibberish nonsense. I backed away from it cautiously, as if it could taint me somehow, infect me with something ghastly, and began to follow in Claudia's footsteps, keeping an eye on the doors out of pure curiosity.

After a few steps I saw another one. . . _Tirn Ail_. That _definitely _wasn't English, but what the hell else could it be? What's more, what could it mean? I shook my head and forced my eyes away from the brass nameplate nailed into the door: my mind was still screwy from that. . . attack, or whatever it was, before Claudia left. I was probably just seeing things. I clung to this, desperately, hoping that my eyes would stop kidding around and my head would start working properly before long, or at least before any more danger showed up – of the human or non-human variety.

The hallway led to more doors, all of them stuck or locked, though admittedly I didn't want to try to force many out of fear of what would be lying behind them. My eyes rested on the silver, glossy doors of an elevator – well, if the lights still worked in a place like this, why not an elevator? Even if it didn't go anywhere I could still sit down, maybe get some rest, before trundling on in search of the exit. With a heart half full of hope and readying disappointment I jabbed my thumb into the _open _button – and the doors slid open at once, as if waiting for me to attempt it.

Not one to look too many gift horses in the mouth – I'd taken that gun mighty quick, hadn't I? - I stepped inside and glanced over my shoulder, hoping to find the button panel and figure out the best route to take: but there was no panel. The entire section was sealed over, as if someone had plastered on top of it. Before I could register the urge to _evacuate_ the doors slid shut behind me, closing with a quick _snap!_ and locking me in.

_Well, I wanted to be safe, hadn't I?_

_But not _trapped. . .

Thinking I could try to pry the doors open with my switchblade _(good ol' knife. . .)_ I took a step closer to the doors and pulled it from my pocket. Almost in response to my steps, the elevator rattled and began to ascend – I froze and tried to quell my panic from reaching hysteria.

You ever get the feeling that if you had just paused for a few seconds, took a good hard look, and chose _not _to do something, you'd be much, much better off? Well, that's how I felt at that moment. If I had just waited a bit before stepping inside this stupid thing I wouldn't be trapped, rising into who knows what type of hell waiting for me on the top floors. The higher the elevator rose, the higher did my hopes ascend; my thoughts danced around these impossible notions _(maybe I was being taken out of this place, maybe someone sent it here to save me)_ and when it reached the top with a shrieking halt I could barely breathe from the force of my desire to be free, to be rescued.

I waited with mounting impatience for the doors to open, perking up my ears in hopes to hear a telltale sign of some switch being thrown, of some unseen hand forcing them open and releasing me into safety – but all I heard were the warbled, piercing howls of static. I winced and nearly screamed when I heard a _crash! _from behind me, the sound of hard plastic falling and skittering across the floor. I glanced down to see a radio slide into the toe of my boot, a small, red thing that could fit nicely into my pockets _(yay vest!)_. It was the source of all that yowling.

_What the hell is this doing falling down from the ceiling? _I twisted my head up to stare at the top of the elevator, squinting against the harsh flush of fluorescent light. I couldn't see any holes, or any noticeable place from where this thing could've fallen. _So. . . what gives?_

_Don't worry about that, Heather. This place clearly missed a stop on the Logic Train._

. . . _Anyway, I guess that explains the static from just before. But all it's picking up _is_ static. . . I wonder if it's broken. _I picked up the radio and turned it over in my hands, fiddling with the knobs, flicking the volume up and down. The only things that changed were the intensity and loudness of the static, otherwise there was no trace of music or voices coming from the speakers: not even a crappy pop song, which I normally don't choose to listen to, but certainly wouldn't mind right now.

Suddenly the elevator doors opened behind me. I felt like the radio had triggered it somehow, that I was just walking blindly, one step at a time, into some carefully calculated scheme. As if to illuminate my own lack of foresight, the only thing outside the doors was a gaping blackness, a shadow that made the light inside the elevator seem feeble and hopeless: it would only be swallowed up no matter how brightly it shone.

I had nowhere else to go. . . I couldn't go back, I doubt the elevator would even heed that desire _(okay, Heather, stop thinking a machine can _hear you, and so my only option was forward, however terrifying of an idea that might be. So I walked out – cautiously, hesitantly, my hands tensed and my feet barely making a sound on the tiles. I was comforted to see that I wasn't going to tumble end over end into a spiraling abyss: there was something _solid _in this darkness, something on which I could stand, a support of some kind. The only sound I could hear was a metallic, almost mechanic, drone, like valves turning, like pathways opening. . . I allowed myself a small sigh of relief – which is when the lights came on.

Again, I felt like I had triggered something by walking blind and dumb into the darkness: in front of me was a cage, the long bars covered and flaky with rust. And behind it was a fence, the metal loops likewise rusted. . . and behind _that_. . . I. . . I don't even know how to explain it, to describe the _thing _inside or what it was doing. I'll do my best, though. I'll try.

This. . . _thing_, I guess it was a monster, but it was shaped like a human: it had a head, a neck, arms, hands, legs. But it was decidedly _in_human, a mockery of it. Its eyes. . . it _had _no eyes, no nose, no mouth, no opening whatsoever; the flesh was smooth and without a trace of perforations beneath the surface. Its flesh was the same color as the weird smock it wore, dirtied and tarnished beyond recognition. It might have been white, pure, at some point in time, but that point was left behind long, long ago: now it was stained, sullied. I couldn't even tell where its skin began and clothes ended.

And in its hands was. . . it _looked _like a woman, but I wasn't foolish enough to think just because it resembled something, it meant that that's what it _was_ – even so. . . it looked like a woman: I could see her breasts, the nipples puckered and sore, and what's worse it seemed like she was _screaming_, her voice muffled by. . . I didn't want to even _think_ about what. Either she was screaming, or that humanoid thing was groaning – I didn't know which would be worse.

I gagged and spun away from the sight of it, slamming my eyes shut and covering my mouth with my hand. The bile rose up high in my throat, threatening to pour down all over me, and beneath the sound of the muffled yells and moans, I screamed. "Is this a dream?!" I wondered wildly, asking no one, asking the hollowness around me, the god that I never learned to believe in, had never prayed to or sought help for in all my life. "It's _gotta _be. . ." There was no way any of this could be happening. I had passed out, probably was still at home, imagining this god-forsaken trip to the mall and its incarnation in hell.

And yet. . . as disgusting as this thing and its companion were, I couldn't help but feel a fascination at its presence. Call it curiosity, the same type that killed that cat, but as much as I wanted to blow chunks even thinking of what was going on a few feet in front of me, I also wanted to _see_, to witness. . . Was this part of the beginning that Claudia was talking about? I stared in mingled disgust and captivation at this thing, at the woman writhing in its hands, twitching and shuddering at its touch. What was it _doing _to her? Somehow. . . and don't _ask _me how because I can't tell you, even now, I can't begin to explain how I knew this, how I felt it; call it a sixth sense or call me crazy, I don't care, but somehow. . . I knew it was sacred. This thing, this humanoid twitching behind the fence, molesting and at the same time almost lovingly caressing the woman, it was something holy, a purification. . . and even though this thing was disgusting, just _looking_ at it made me want to spill my guts and burst into tears, at the same time I knew it was harmless. I knew it wouldn't, couldn't, hurt me – shame that it didn't seem like that woman had my luck.

_SLAM!_ The elevator doors shut themselves, blocking me from any attempt of escape.

_CRASH! _Another set of doors, metal bars like a cage, closed in front of them, locking me inside, forcing me to stand too close to comfort to this thing and its friend. Even with the gates and bars in the way I _still _felt anxious at the thought of being within sight distance of it. I don't know what would happen if it saw me. . .

Though it wouldn't do much good, just be a comfort more than an actual aid, I backed up as far as I could, my back brushing against the bars of the door that shut behind me. I flattened my hands against them, mildly comforted by the chill of metal, and continued staring, helplessly, at the disgusting ritual taking place before me.

This was surreal. . . this was _insane_, like the sort of thing you use to scare kids when they're young, tales of the Boogey Man and the Thing under the bed/in the closet/beneath the stairs. But no kid could possibly come up with a scene this twisted, with a Boogey Man this grotesque and perverted. . . "Not even a kid could believe in this," I said out loud, feebly, voicing an answer to my own jumbled and hurried thoughts.

The monster, or the woman, I couldn't tell, howled in agreement, mocking me.

"But when am I going to wake up?" I felt my eyes glisten with tears. I slid down to the floor, staring up as the cage I was in began to descend – down. . . down. . . deeper into the darkness, puncturing my hopes as they plummeted like a stone falling out of the sky, landing back down in the hell I'd thought I'd left behind and down into the hell waiting for me.


	8. VII: Through the LookingGlass

_"Contrariwise. . . if it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be but as it isn't, it ain't. That's logic." -- Through the Looking-Glass_, Lewis Carroll.

**Chapter VII – Through the Looking-Glass**

* * *

When the elevator came to a shuddering halt, the doors slid back and exposed a grim, dimly-lit hall. The wall directly across from me was covered in filth, looked like it hadn't been washed or cared for in years, and the floor wasn't in any better shape: the tiles. . . they were horribly stained, like rust and dirt, or worse, blood, had been smeared over its surface. I still sat on the floor of the elevator cart, gathering my bearings and preparing the strength it took to stand – a considerable effort, since the sight of that _thing _in the cage made me want to remain as still and quiet as possible in case I saw it again – when I heard a sound: footsteps. Four at a time, soft, padding noises against the yucky tiles. _Another dog_. The radio, which I had tucked in one of my vest's pockets, began to trill quietly, the static almost like an alert system, growing louder the closer the footsteps came. I steadied my hand on my gun and held my breath, fearing the dog's ability to hear – weren't their senses stronger than humans? – knowing that I had to stand, and quickly, not wanting to be easy prey.

The static grew and grew. . . I rose with my back pressed against the wall, listening hard as the footsteps came closer, as the sound of nostrils, split ones, breathing in deep and sniffing furtively at the air grew louder, too. It was close – and it could tell something was here. Nearly trembling, either with fright or anticipation. . . I can't remember: all I know is that I wanted to feel like I was in control again, gain back some small shard of strength that had been taken from me on the ride down here – I waited, holding my breath, waited until that damn thing turned the corner, the radio nearly screaming in my pocket now, the dog's breath rattling in my ears. And when it turned its split-head – that's what I'll call it from now on, I guess: it's the easiest way to identify them, and to keep calling them dogs would be untrue as they were the furthest thing from a _normal _dog I've ever seen – round to peek in the open elevator, perhaps to investigate the source of the radio's racket, I extended my arms and pulled the trigger, aiming at its open, gaping injury. The gun barked once, loudly, though not as loud as the dog yelped, blood weeping from its worsened wound, and it trembled on its feet, slumping to the floor. I stepped forward and gave its head a good kick, though my stomach turned and I bristled at getting my boots dirty. I didn't want it getting up anytime soon. . . and with the damage I'd done, I hoped that it wouldn't. The radio hushed to a distant, nearly inaudible, purr; I counted to ten and the dog still hadn't moved, blood now pooling around it in a dark red puddle. Guess I had lucked out this time.

I stepped out further into the dark hall and could hear. . . wet, gnashing sounds. Like something eating, and fast, voraciously, hungrily. . . my stomach turned again, reminding me of my own hunger, and how anything offered in this place would be the _last _thing I'd consider edible. What could be making that noise? I didn't want to know – and at the same time, I couldn't help but be curious. Was it another, newer, monster? Perish the thought. . . the only way to find out would be to continue onward.

I can't recall the exact layout of the place – I know I made a few wrong turns, ended up trying to force more locked and stuck doors than I cared to in a darkened, horrible place like this, and eventually my bungling efforts paid off: I found the source of the noise. Further down the hall, if I squinted, I could see it: two more split-heads, hovering over something. . . I moved by them quietly, holding tight to the gun and hearing my heart pound so fast I was sure they could hear it, too. This was the closest I'd gotten to one of these things without trying to force a bullet in its head. But they seemed pretty distracted, like that one monster in the clothing store, and as I passed I turned my head to see why. There was a small bundle placed on the floor, wrapped in what looked like. . . bandages? No, more like a blanket, the kind you swaddle an infant in. The split-heads were tearing their sundered jaws into it with great enthusiasm, ripping off chunks of meat and guzzling it down their throats (how it worked, I don't know: they shouldn't have been able to _breathe _much less consume), spattering the floor with more stains, more blood. I felt my throat tighten around the steady pounding of my heart and knew I'd be sick if I didn't haul ass out of there – so I broke into a ran, not caring if they heard me, not caring if I ran into anything worse around the bend, and made a beeline for the first door that came into my view: a dark green one, somehow inviting in all this horror. Fortunately, it opened without resistance, and inside it. . . well, I wouldn't exactly call it a clean haven, but at least it was safe: nothing in here but a bed, a couch, shelves and just myself, now. I collapsed into the dusty, grimy cushions of the couch and leaned over, breathing hard, trying to steady my shaking hands: there was no _way _they'd been eating a baby. No possible way. No one would do such a terrible thing, leave their child to be devoured. . . I gagged and retched, fearing I'd be sick.

Truth is, people _do _do terrible things to their children. There'd been this story, on the news; I remember hearing about it last night before I went to bed: a man had left his three-year-old daughter out in the snow, carried her out into the middle of the woods and left her there to die. He said he couldn't stand her crying, how she wouldn't listen to him. . . the police, they found her footprints, pacing around in a small circle, criss-crossing this way and that, trying to find a way back home. They found her huddled down for warmth inside the exposed roots of the tree. It happened somewhere up north, somewhere that still had snow this time of year. My dad turned the TV off, abruptly, shortly after that story. He looked grim and disgusted, his eyes averted from the screen, and from my face, when I asked him if he was all right.

I covered my face with my hands and breathed in deep. Counted to ten, breathed again. This was the only way to thwart my rising sickness. I couldn't think about that kind of stuff now, it wouldn't help me and it certainly didn't do any good. Horrible as that might seem, there was nothing I could do about it. . . not for that little girl, or for myself. I just had to get out of here.

Taking a look around me, I noticed that I was in some kind of small, First Aid room. Maybe in case someone got injured at the mall or whatever – there were shelves, like I said earlier, with first aid kits and various bottles stacked up on them. Bandages, too, and something that looked, alarmingly, like a syringe. . . What could _that _be doing here? The bottles, though, they caught my eye: One of them was the same as the one I'd seen back where I found the key to _My Bestsellers_; those weird health drink things. I stood up and walked over to take a closer look, thinking if I had ever needed some kind of energy boost, now was certainly the time. The bottle was light in my hand, the contents of it swirling against the dark glass. I unscrewed the top and gave it a tentative sniff: it didn't _seem _dangerous. Then again, hadn't I just thought that nothing in this place was edible? Anything this world offered me would surely have some kind of malignant string attached to it –

Come to think of it, a string _was _attached to the bottle. I blinked, confused, and picked up the tiny card that was tied to the end of it, wondering how I hadn't seen it before. . .

**DRINK ME! **Was printed on the card. I smiled a bit at that, thinking of _Alice in Wonderland_, wondering if it'd make me get taller, or shorter, or. . . I don't know, whatever it did to Alice in that book, and was considering giving the drink a taste when something red caught my eye. In the reflection of the glass on the shelf I could see it, something over my shoulder. I turned to look and there, scrawled. . . no, painted, deliberately painted, on the sheets of the bed, was that same symbol as I'd seen in the bathroom. The same two circles, with runes along the top of it, and three smaller circles in the center. The same color, too: redder than red, almost glowing. . . but how? I moved closer to it, holding the drink in one hand and the gun in the other, not sure what to make of it. . . What was it? And who put it here? And why. . . does my head. . . ?

My head. . . it wasn't hurting as badly as it did in the hallway with Claudia, but it was definitely stinging something fierce, that same monster stretching out its claws, ripping through my head and pulling back a veil (no, not a veil, a curtain – no, untying something. . . bandages, unwrapping them, changing them). It was trying to show me something, trying to tell me. . . remind me. . .

The shelves. . . they didn't have bottles on them, no bandages or kits, instead there were books: The Wizard of Oz, The Lost World, Alice in Wonderland. . . I loved them so much, especially the last one. I'd read them so often the ink would smudge my fingers, turning them black; the pages were stained from my constant fingering, their spines creased with how many times I'd opened and shut them, opening doors into another world, a better world. But why was this one bad? Why did I live so much in books, shutting myself out from the reality around me? This room. . . the bed was still here, but there was no couch: instead there was a writing desk, a dress hanging on a wall next to it: more shelves, drawings, scattered, around the floor. Crayons, smashed, broken, or peeled back, laying around like small, colorful land-mines. I had some butterflies up on a wall, too: they were a present, something one of the teachers (K. Gordon?) bought for me when we visited that museum. . . She said they'd match my dress; I thought they were so beautiful, but mom got angry that someone spent their money on me like that.

I used to try and sketch the butterflies, but it never came out right. I always messed it up somehow, and finally I got tired of it. . . so I drew other things instead. They had wings, but their bodies were long, like a large bird's, and their faces like reptiles; no, a demon's. No. . . something else. I drew other things, too – people, sometimes, though they didn't come out right, either. Something about them was all wrong, and I hated what I made. They were stooped and hulking, more like monkeys than actual people – and I drew symbols. Things I'd seen in books, but other books – the ones mom made me read. There was the Talisman. . . I liked that one. I practiced drawing it wherever I could, doodling it on every scrap that came my way, memorizing every curve, arc and feature of it. And there was another – was it a halo? Angels had halos – and they could only wear one. . .

My hands trembled, quaking; I dropped the gun and the drink, bringing both hands to my forehead and shutting my eyes, not wanting to look at the halo(?) anymore, not wanting to see. . . but what was I seeing? What was all that? I never had such a room – none of my teachers in elementary school were named Gordon, I never wore a blue dress. . . never had a mother. . .

"Get a grip, Heather." I commanded, shaking my head, willing the pain to fade, urging the claws to recede back in their cage. I wouldn't stir this beast with my curiosity, with my incessant questions. I would let it lie dormant, it was the only sure way to be safe. This place, it was just getting to me – it was just trying to confuse me. Just like Claudia back there in that hallway. I wouldn't get any straight answers from a place like this. I'd get nothing besides a headache, it seemed, and a wrenching, churning gut.

I took one fleeting look at the health drink at my feet and stooped to pick it up. Well, if it killed me. . . I wasn't exactly going to worry myself sick over that. Besides, wasn't this a dream? Was it? I thought I'd woken up from it already: the call to my dad seemed real enough, but I'd probably slipped back into it somehow, after meeting that detective guy in front of the phones. And hey, I'd already cheated death once. . . So I unscrewed the cap, took a quick swig, and was surprised at the taste: it was sweet, and cool. Pleasant, almost, like a soothing drink of iced tea. I took another sip and felt the trembling in my hands subside, felt my headache recede until it was nothing more than a faint twinge, an easy to neglect twang of pain that could do little to stand in my way. I picked up my gun, finished off the rest of the bottle, and told myself to keep an eye out for any others along the way, should I see them.

Back out in the hallway. . . I was ready for the sound this time, that horrible gnashing, gorging noise of the split-heads enjoying their feast. Running past them was easier this time, as long as I kept my eyes averted and trained my attention on the set of double doors ahead of me. The radio was screeching in my pocket but I did my best to ignore it, hoping the split-heads would do the same. I pushed hard against the doors and took a moment to breathe, to pause and wait, observing what lay behind it.

I was back in the central part of the mall. . . hadn't I been here earlier? It looked familiar all right: a little up ahead, on my right and bathed in an eerie light, was the hallway where the public phones were kept. Which meant. . . right across from my was where Happy Burger was – or should have been. There was nothing but a strange, large metal door, like the ones used for meat coolers in a butcher's shop, and the other stores were all covered in metal grating. Where the doors to the exit should have been was, instead, just a solid wall – this wasn't exactly comforting. . . nor was the constant blast of the radio.

It didn't take me long to figure out why: those long-armed, hulking things. . . there were two of them in here, wandering aimlessly around without a care in the world. I could hear them grunting, like some stupid beast as they paced and ambled. I knew if I timed it right, I could slip by them without, hopefully, either of them noticing I was there – maybe I could hide out in the bathroom again, like I had from that detective.

I hadn't really thought about him all that much: was he here, too? Did he manage to find a place to hide? I mean, I wasn't going to break my heart with worry over the guy, but the last thing I needed was to find his dead body around the bend while I was trying to make an escape: not to be selfish, but that wouldn't exactly help me out at all. And besides. . . as creepy as he might have been, he definitely didn't deserve to die in a place like this. If he was here at all. In fact. . . I hadn't seen a sign of anyone else besides Claudia, and that was before things turned into _this_. Maybe I really was all alone here – with nothing but beasts to keep me company.

Knowing how Alice felt a little better, and not profiting at all from the knowledge, I took a breath and briskly jogged out from behind the door, careful to travel on the blind side of those monsters – Closers, I'll call them: because. . . well, they might be totally stupid but they can be persistent if they spot you, and they've no problem getting as close as they can – and breaking out into an all out run once I'd reached the hallway. I didn't bother to stop at the phones; they wouldn't work, anyway. I cursed silently when glass crunched beneath my feet – surely they'd hear me and come looking for me based on the sound. As if the radio wasn't bad enough. I just managed to turn the corner leading to the bathrooms when I heard their telltale grunts and shifting, wet footsteps: they were comin' for me, alright.

I ducked into the first room on my left, almost weeping with satisfaction when it opened and revealed a brightly lit, almost comforting, room. More bullets were in here. . . I took whatever I could carry, which wasn't much, with either meant I'd have to start using more or find a way to carry more things with me, and there was something else: a sign tacked near the light-switch. It told me to turn off the light, that it'd be more noticeable in the dark. Not being a fan of the dark, but being curious as to what the hell this could mean, I gave the switch a casual flick – and noticed a bright, faintly piercing glow from my left. A pocket flashlight was positioned on top of a small pile of boxes, big enough to fit in the breast pocket of my vest, across from where I kept the radio. It was a useful little thing, considering the electricity was so iffy in a place like this, and I happily took it along with me.

Only then did it occur to me that my collection from my amusement park dream was complete: I'd started off with the knife, the radio and flashlight. . . I'd found the gun later, but I'd likewise found it here. Would this dream end the same as that one? Was I being tested? Prepared? I didn't like the idea of that at all. . . thinking back to my accident on the roller coaster, I wasn't about to go around skirting death and giving it ample opportunity to get to me again. But it wasn't like I could find a good place to hide, either: the safe havens were few, and far between each other, nothing but open, dangerous space from one spot to the next. And the only exit I knew of was blocked, completely walled off as if it had never existed.

What to do, what to do?

_Happy Burger_, I thought again, though I had no idea why. . . That's where this all started, from when I woke up at that table, from that horrible nightmare. Would going back there do anything? Would it help at all? Running around blindly certainly wouldn't help: I had to find _some _place to bunker down and had to have some destination in mind: that place was as good as any.

So I braved the corridor again. And I was right: the Closers _were _looking for me. One of them nearly blocked the entire space of the hallway, I barely was able to skirt around it and sprint past the other one lumbering behind. I could hear it wind up for a massive punch, the fierce _woosh _of air lifting the hair off my head and scattering it, messily, about in a quick rush of a gale. I ran hard to the doors of what was once Happy Burger and pulled with all my might, sliding it open enough so I could duck inside and not worry about one of those things following in after me. They moved slow, but their strides were long, and their arms twice that – and besides, the door was pretty heavy. I barely had it back in its frame when the two of them started pummeling, angrily and almost rhythmically, on the metal doors. I saw it shudder in its frame, dent inward from the force of the blows, but after a short while the assault stopped: turns out they'd give up if prey was out of sight for too long. Kinda comforting, but I didn't exactly want to play hide and seek with something that towered at least two feet over my full height: it had an unfair advantage.

I looked around me – well, it _seemed_ like Happy Burger, in the most basic sense of resemblance. The only table that was here was the one I had woken up at; the windows had broken, splintered blinds hanging off them, and nothing but darkness outside. Could it be nighttime already? Had this. . . shift or whatever moved me forward in time somehow? Still, the idea of looking out at a whole bunch of empty space wasn't exactly comforting, so I tried my best to ignore it, to pay attention to something else. . .

There was a ladder hanging down half-way from the ceiling. It lead up to a tear in the building, a giant hole, a new path ripped open in the sky. I had no hope of managing to grab onto it but hey, wouldn't you know, if I stood on my tip-toes on the table I could reach it. The ladder was cold, ice cold, in my hands; the second I touched it I felt goosebumps break out all over my arms and legs, a tiny shiver trembling its way down my back.

Getting through the top wasn't so difficult: despite being ripped apart, the floor felt. . . pretty sturdy, surprisingly. It supported my weight with ease, and when I was assured I wouldn't go toppling down into nothing I took a look around, squinting in the near darkness. My flashlight was feeble, but at least it helped out a little bit: there was a display of small televisions in a case further ahead of me, and two sets of escalators, two going down, two going up. And closer to me, right in front of me. . . stretchers, with stained white blankets covering them, and the body underneath.

I gagged and took a few steps to the side, away from the gurney, trying to avert my eyes and squash the curiosity. This wasn't a hospital, so what the hell. . . they had no place here. There was no mistaking the mound beneath the fabric: someone was _under there_. I could look at it and try to tell myself it was just a coincidence, that there wasn't anything under there, I didn't sense anything, didn't feel anything: there was no way a corpse could be there, no way a dead body would just be left, neglected, deposited, in the mall of all freakin' places. But this mall was rapidly changing from the one I was so familiar with, the one I so enjoyed, that it didn't surprise me in the least that I should be questioning such a disgusting prop. This wasn't reality: this was a bastardization of it, a cheaply, hastily made nightmare, pieced together from things that were familiar and things that distorted it, contorted it into something hellish and _wrong_.

Even worse. . . the very idea of a gurney made me think of hospitals. Yeah, it's silly to worry about my own fears when there was a dead body so close to me, but I _hated _hospitals. There was something about them, that. . . god, just terrified me. It was some stupid childhood fear that I'd never been able to get over: the way kids fear the dark, or scream and cry during a thunderstorm, well, that's how I was with hospitals. They were a common theme in my nightmares when I was younger, before the nightmares started turning up when my eyes were open, and to see this here. . . to be reminded of that fear now. . . It was like someone had sculpted this place out of everything I feared and hated, had known exactly how to tweak at my heart and wrench my gut, making me succumb to both emotions.

But that's ridiculous. I don't care if I know jack about metaphysics, time and space or any crazy stuff that Steve Hawkins guy knows as easily as I do my ABCs, I know for sure that there's no way a person can make a world _out of what's in someone's mind_. No, that just doesn't happen. I bet I was just walking around the regular mall, completely out of my mind, thinking I was seeing something else. . . while that thought wasn't at all comforting, it was a hell of a lot better than thinking some _thing _made this world based on my fears.

Time to move on. I'd be sick if I hung out near the gurney any longer. The TVs. . . sure, why not. It was worth a look. I headed over to them, stealing a glance at the escalators that descended into darkness, my eyes widening at all the blackness spreading out beneath me: _there was no floor there_. Nothing, no thing at all, was on the floor beneath this one: so. . . what the hell happened to the area I was just in? Was it all disappearing behind me (I took a quick look over my shoulder just to make sure everything was where I'd left it: yep, gurney, ladder, some doors I hadn't bothered to open)? I shivered and held tighter to my gun, not knowing why I bothered using it as some anchor to comfort. I guess it's because it's the only thing I had right now.

The TVs. . . they got nothing but static. Not surprising, I didn't think any signal could pierce whatever reality I was walking around in, but there was something peculiar about the one closest to me. It was broadcasting black and white fuzz just like the others, but if I stared at it closely I could swear I saw flashes of something else, something trying to break through the fog and snow. I squinted and leaned closer, blocking the glare of my flashlight with my free hand.

Eyes. . . There was no mistaking it: there was a picture beneath all that fuzz. I kept staring, hoping that I could force the image to come in clearer, and soon enough the eyes gave way to a face, a horrified, twitching, little girl's face. Her head was thrown back and rigid, her eyes opened wide, her mouth stuck in a reverse scream. . . and through the static her voice broke though, tiny and soft, pleading, calling out, begging - ". . .addy, whe. . . ou?"

"What the. . ." I took a step back, my heart racing, my hand fumbling on my flashlight, momentarily shutting it off and throwing myself into darkness, bathed by the faint, snowy glow of the broken TV. I shook my head and took a closer look at the screen, wondering if I had just imagined it. . . would it show up again? If it did, at least I could know for sure that it was really there.

But nothing showed up. Just the same fog, the same low buzz of a bad reception. There was no little girl there. . . but I thought for sure I heard her calling for "Daddy."

I flicked the flashlight back on and bit my lip, barely able to make out my reflection in the TV's screen. My eyes were wide, my mouth twisted and closed, but I looked a near cry as scared as that girl had, if she'd been there at all. "Dad," I murmured. "Please be safe."

My faint reflection imitated me, mimicking the movements of my lips, the swell of glossy tears in my eyes and the spasm of frustration that sprawled over my face, somehow so familiar: the yearning to be protected, the desire to be in his arms and safe from all that thrived in this horrible world. Through the make-shift looking-glass I could see her, my reflection, as pale as a ghost and barely discernible through the haze – _Dolores, _I thought I'd call her, a joke on _Lolita_ – peering back out at me, imitating my words and actions, copying me down to the last gesture.

Was the little girl looking out at me?, or was I peering inward, into myself, at her?

See, this is why I hated mirrors.


	9. VIII: Like a Coiling Miasma

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the long delay. All the changes to the events here are minor and to save needless trekking around time. As Heather says, I wanted to avoid this "and then... and then..." sense. You all know how to do it in the game, but I don't think it'd pan out very well in a novel. There's a lot more to Silent Hill 3's story than wandering about for detergent and bleach, a nutcracker and keys.

* * *

**Chapter VIII – Like a Coiling Miasma**

* * *

To draw myself back from that in-depth nonsense of mirrors, and the little girl I wasn't sure I really saw, my mind latched itself onto one frightening, impossible complex: there was no power here. I could attest to that by needing this pocket flashlight, useless in any situation save for the one I was in now, and also thanks to all the dead lights and unresponsive light-switches I'd passed. Any lamp or overhead source of light was weak, flimsy at best—likely to go out at any moment. May was well have been dead for all the good it did me.

Any windows that I had seen were either boarded shut, preventing any light from leaking in, or completely black—not painted over, just... black. Like the world had gone dark with no moon or stars to keep it company. And since there was no power... there was no way that television could've worked. No _reasonable_, _logical _way it could transmit anything but a blank and empty screen. Looking at the other, smaller sets that were arranged around the one I'd seen, they were all behaving as they should: no sounds, no image whatsoever. I glared at the black sheep of the lot, as if its proper functioning was somehow a grand offense, and did what I could to make some sense come from it.

Whatever this place was... my nightmares, a world made of nightmares... clearly it operated however the hell it pleased. That should've been obvious enough because of those weird things I'd seen _(and killed) _but somehow the idea of electricity coming from nothing, of an energy source stemming from where there by all rights should have been none, deepened my fright and sense of unease. This just wasn't possible. Abominations of the flesh, sure, they were impossible too, but you couldn't rule out much these days because of nuclear power plants and... messed up genetics or whatever—but this really bothered me. When I say bothered, of course I mean terrified. It's like whatever ran the show of this little hellhole got its kicks from imitating what was normal and every day, as if I needed reminding how far from normal and every day I _was_, and shoving it into places and situations where it shouldn't _be_. Was there any purpose to it at all?

Look: my father's the writer not me. . . I don't know how to write about my exploration of the area without turning it into this "and then... and then..." business. I did some poking around, most of it leading me right in the paths of more monsters... those things that bleat like lambs. I quickly turned right back the way I'd come and shut the door on them, hoping their combined weight and efforts wouldn't break it down. I didn't hang around long to wait and see, and soon found myself staring at the TVs again.

Inexplicably I couldn't help but think of my father. The little girl I'd seen—did I even see her, did I just imagine her?—had called out for hers, after all. Distanced though I was by a good seven years from my childhood my fear for him made me feel helpless and small like... like a child lost in the supermarket, petrified at the high rows of shelves and bleached bone floors. That'd happened to me once; if the situation were different I wouldn't think much of it over the years because all kids experience some great trauma of separation at some point and then they promptly forget it. But I couldn't help but remember all of mine because looking back it seems dad and I were separated not only by a few feet or an entire aisle but _worlds_.

I can't pretend that I don't think I had it a lot worse than kids who wander off from their parents because I didn't just wander, I was taken: scooped up by the hands of a trickster god and dumped in a nightmare, a grotesque attempt at the reality I knew and felt comfortable with. I could still remember the smell of the place—the rotten meat, moldy bread and cheese, the curdling yogurt... it was a miasma of scent and it hit me so hard that I choked, hot tears flushing to my eyes and gargling in my mouth. I could hear the sound of metal on metal, a shrieking pierce that made my teeth grind and my ears ache: if there was anyone else in the store with me, s/he was sharpening whatever tools they had... Over the rot and the mold I could distinctly smell the crisp, "a match has just been struck" stain that lingers in the air and spreads itself, invisible, undetectable, throughout the area. If I hated hospitals it was _nothing_ to what I felt about fire. Hospitals at least had a sense of confinement to them, a strict and starched quality of control and order. Fire didn't have any order, any purpose but to breathe and spread. Like fire, these fears only grew worse the more you breathed on them, spread themselves thick and charring what they could. It was like a disease...

Smelling that on top of the long-past-expired food made me burst out screaming. Only the metallic howling was louder than me.

They'd locked down the entire store, I was later told. Dad reported me missing and explained a little of the situation's urgency _(as if a missing child wasn't urgent enough?)_ and in response they closed all of their doors, refusing to let anyone leave until they'd checked every child and tailed every person back to their cars to ensure I wasn't trapped in there. They found me hidden in the floral department two hours after they started looking, the one place that didn't smell as horrible as the rest of the store and still managed to look normal despite the macabre setting.

The girl working there at the time was of course surprised to see me: "I turned around and there she was! Like she'd just... _appeared_." She recovered in time to scoop me in her arms—which couldn't have been an easy feat, squalling and flailing as I was—and carried me to the customer service desk, where they pronounced me safe and found to the delight of shoppers and managers, and the tremendous relief of my father. My dad was tearfully overjoyed to see me. He took me in his arms and held me so tight the transition from smelling rot to his sweat and the faint musk of his cologne was dizzying to the senses. I think he even tried to pay the girl... she ended up giving us something—well, giving _me _something. I still had that Casablanca Lily pressed and dried out, brittle like a fine glass, tucked away in some dresser drawer. I don't think I'll ever forget the scent of them; such a strong, pure perfume in all that rot and decay, like a light turned on to break through the darkness, or a voice calling out through all the silence.

Speaking of scents, here, standing before the TVs, there is a strong rust and metallic odor, the kind that pools on your tongue and sits heavy, warming your mouth like blood. There's no rot or decay but a chill of dead air, air that's been sitting still, having settled like so much dust in a forgotten home.

Home... I'd never forget home. What was my dad doing right about now? My watch said it was a quarter to seven, so I imagined if he hadn't already done so he would be settling to a nice, tasty microwaveable dinner. I smiled at the thought. Neither of us were very skilled at cooking; his favorite line was, "The only things I know how to make in the kitchen are messes and small fires," and we'd get by either from instant foods or the rare order-out eat-in scenario. That dinner with dad's friend/agent I mentioned a little while ago?, was totally different, special. Another tenant of our apartment had made that meal for us, knowing how awful dad and I were at cuisine.

She was such a nice woman, quiet and lonesome, widowed by her high-school sweetheart who had died en route to his girlfriend's house one evening a few months back. I still remember when we first met her—she buzzed us from the ground floor outside to be let in, having left her master key elsewhere (or so we thought) and after seeing her looking so miserable and tear-stained, dad invited her to a cup of tea and a small chat.

"My husband's in Europe with his girlfriend and this is how he leaves me," she spluttered. We later learned he had taken her keys with him to Europe, thinking it a laugh to leave his wife stranded after they'd just argued over his infidelity.

She spent the night after telling us her whole story, and for the next three years she'd spend another one here and there when her husband returned home in a towering temper from the bar or a late night at work. For my part as a teenager with little better to do with her time I pulled every prank I knew, drawing my friends into it, too. Katy and Jes were all too happy to egg and slash at his car, drop his mail into the sewers or down the garbage chute, leave strange, vaguely harassing and sexual voice mails at his office in between classes at school _(Katy had the courage for this: Jes and I merely giggled and gasped in the background, keeping an eye out in case someone intruded on our private moment in the ladies room_) or subscribe him to fundamentalist Christian newsletters. That seemed to be in vogue for a few years when I was growing up. We'd find them stuffed in mall bathrooms, between shelves of so-called perverted literature at bookshops, or else see the people pontificating on soapboxes, literal and figurative, on street corners, preaching a dogma no one cared to hear. This prank of ours stopped after dad found us laughing over one pamphlet for some local, state-grown cult. The Order, I think it was called? A plain name for the people who claimed to be in search of the Holy Woman on earth, primed and ready to birth God. Dad wrenched the pamphlet from my hands and gave me a long look—not an angry one, but not totally frightened, either. A mix caught in the air between. It frightened both Katy and Jes when we talked about it later, and though it bothered me I had at least seen such a look before: dad would sometimes look at me that way after my "waking nightmares," as if he suspected me of something.

When I asked him about it later he'd said that the Order were some particularly dangerous people, total nut-jobs like the Heaven's Gate folk—and after listening to an explanation on how messed up those Heaven's Gate people were—_"They died with Nikes on, for Chrissakes. _Nikes! _Do you know how many people would _kill_ to have a decent pair of shoes?" _—I decided that my dad took this matter quite seriously. Which was odd, since he'd never openly proclaimed us any one religion or another. We lived our lives free from some such rituals and rites, saying "the Lord's" name in vain however we pleased and thinking nothing of it to pass the word "god" around in a sentence. To see him respond to poorly to this one cheesy group of freaks bothered me—it made me angry, the way any stupid thing will make a teenager angry at their parents.

"How do you know these people are as messed up as those comet weirdos, anyway?"

His face had tightened, his emotions pulling up and in, raveling itself into a taut knot I couldn't undo. "Well, _allegedly_, they're the ones responsible for snatching up little girls—you remember when Arnold came over for dinner, sweetie? I don't know if you might, you were only eleven at the time..."

"Dad," I said, deadpan and blunt. "I'm seventeen, not seventy-five. Of course I remember."

He smiled vaguely at my joke, the corners of his lips twitching up. "Well, that's what he was talking about. These people have been on trial and suspected of having a hand in it for years, and the last thing I want you and your friends to do is waste any time on their garbage, whether you're joking or not."

"Okay... but I don't see how dangerous that flier was. It's not like we were buying into it or anything."

"Heather... sometimes there are things that stay with you—little things, things you don't think too much about when you first see or read them. I get the feeling whatever the Order has to say is the same way, and the last thing I want is for you to have your mind wrapped around it. It's... poisonous. Damaging." He shook his head, upsetting his glasses a little so they slipped down the bridge of his nose and he took a few moments to compose himself, avoiding my eyes all the while. "I don't want to lose you to any of that."

After that, I really had no choice but to obey him.

So why did I get into all this? Well... this is what I'd thought of, idly wandering in the darkness of that hovering, suspended floor somewhere between the darkness and a hopeless attempt at reality _(the escalators leading downstairs lead more to a black abyss of nothing, which I didn't dare step close to for the fear of it collapsing beneath my weight_). All these things had a purpose, a point... and all these thoughts lead back to Claudia.

Something she'd said... I squinted my eyes, forcing my memory to work backwards, trying to pick out a small beacon from the foggy remnants of that much-laughed-over pamphlet. _The Rebirth of Paradise... despoiled by Mankind... _

_... Mankind is not without hope, though we live in unforgivable sin. Mankind is not without redemption, though we spit on the hand that would welcome us. Mankind is not without light, though we choose to wander through the shadows._

"'God is our light,'" I whispered, remembering the last part of that psychotic babbling. "'And through God there is Paradise. And in Paradise there is God.'" It was a perfect circle I guess, if you believed in that stuff. Clearly Claudia must be a part of that—but why should she come after me? Foolishly I thought she'd somehow found out about my pranks from years prior, but I immediately shot that down: not only was it _completely impossible _for her to exact her punishment by dragging me into hell, there was a very paper-thin chance she was trying to punish me at all. In fact she seemed to... _need_ me.

"_Your power is needed."_ A direct statement and an equally direct finger jabbing right at me, like nailing a butterfly to a wall and sheathing it in glass. She'd specifically called me out, called "my power" out and labeled it as a useful, necessary tool. But what power...? What the hell? I stared at my hands, spreading the fingers wide, tracing the lines on my palms with my eyes. Was there something here I was missing? Something I didn't understand?

_There's a lot here you don't understand, Heather._

"Shut up." I wasn't being helpful right now—in fact I was being kind of annoying. To get these thoughts gone and in the hopes of leaving them behind to play catch up, I took off at a fast walk towards the next set of escalators. These ones ran to the upper floor,\ and they _seemed _to be connected to some form of land above... if it was just another bottomless pit I'd sure as hell find out when I got to the top. I checked and rechecked my gun, patted my knife in my pocket just to be safe, fiddled with the radio's volume to make sure it was going to ring loud and clear if necessary and ascended the hollow, metal steps one clank at a time.

Right as I reach the top the radio starts to trill—_bzzrt bzzrt_, a weird hush that bursts to life like a flower opening, a jarring off-note in all this silence, and that's not the only thing I can hear. Far off in the not-so-distant distance, I can hear teeth.. a wet, slobbering sound of teeth on flesh... my stomach clenches, and I know there's more of those dogs around. They're pitiful enough as is, even worse when you attack them, but I remind myself that if they have their little chew toys as a distraction I can slip by without much of a problem. And that's what I need right now: a lack of problems.

I am, however, also a big sissy and don't want to see the dog chewing and tearing at the bandaged, rotten-smelling distraction anytime soon. I look ahead of me but the dog isn't there: the only thing that _is_ there is this weird.. warped and off-blue colored door like it's been messed up in a flood or something. There's a crescent moon carved into the top and writing towards the bottom but I'm not close enough to make it out. I don't want to get any closer either, lest that dog find me and want to gnaw on me instead. Lucky for me there's a door open to my right and from it pours a light, glorious light, gold and warm, inviting and a great relief. I slip inside as carefully as I can, taking care not to disturb the door and thus disturb the dog.

There's something wrong the minute I step inside. I can feel it... smell it. I breathe in deep and let it back out in a rushed cough, a kind of gargled, throttled spit that makes me lean over and retch. Burnt hair and flesh, and this horrendous charred meat-like smell... god it's disgusting. _Revolting_... I wipe at the tears flaring in my eyes and peer around me, my gaze landing instantly on the table in the center, the only one with a bite to eat atop of it and the source of this terrible smell.

I don't need to get any closer. I can see what it is from here and guess what it is, too. This one probably wasn't as lucky as the one outside, happily gnawing away at its dinner. Or lunch. Or snack. This one... god, this one I couldn't look at. I just couldn't.

I'm not a bleeding-heart animal lover. I'm the last person to sign up for PETA and become a vegetarian, and that's only because steaks and hamburgers taste so good, no matter _what _Morning Star tries to make to combat it. But even this, and all the things I'd seen and done to the animals here just.. appalled me. I could try and tell myself it was out of self-defense, that it was a Me VS It scenario and in that situation I valued my life more than a canines. Sad but true. But this? _Cooking a dog and setting it up to eat?_

My vision blurred and I stumbled closer to a corner, covering my mouth with a quaking hand as I retched again and finally released the flimsy contents of my stomach. I hadn't really eaten all day so it didn't surprise me to see the acidic, frightening bright-green putridity of bile splatter on the dirty floor and onto the toes of my boots. I was honestly surprised that I hadn't gotten sick sooner than this, but I know of very few people who could look at a cooked dog without losing some small bit of their lunch—this was just too much. Too horrible. On-the-fritz TVs were _nothing _compared to this.

Turning to look at it again, probably out of masochistic curiosity and not genuine interest, my flashlight's beam caught a glimmer, a small sheen... I tried my damnedest not to pay too much attention to the still-smoking mass laid out for supper and carefully observed the minute details of that stone, white like a pearl and round, polished and worn down like the rocks on a beach. Was it... _Was it in the dog's stomach? _God, not that again... I didn't have much else in _mine_ to let up. Still, there must be a reason it's there...

Tentatively I went over to investigate. I won't pretend that I wasn't whimpering and swallowing back more bile and more sputtering hacks and coughs the closer I got to the damn thing. I twisted my head away at one point and carefully felt around the table with my fingertips, hoping to stray as far as the chives put out around the—sweet lord _help me—_intestines and not to the arched, bloody ribs that shone like glass through the muck and gore. I don't think I could handle that much. The instant my fingers touched the cruel broth pooling on the saucer I screamed, a tiny, tinny sound muffled by my pursed lips and my quick hand. It was _warm_, still smoldering... fresh, in other words. And in it sat the stone, glimmering amidst all the horror, a precious gem that shone as if to say, _C'mon, Heather! Suck it up and pick _me _up!_

I rocked backward and forward on my heels, chancing a glance up at the doorway _(to make sure nothing was trying to enter unobserved, catching me off my guard)_ to a quick look at the dog _(still dead, still disgusting)_ and back down to the stone. What was the use of it? And how would it help me in any possible way to take it?

"Only one way to find out..."

Saying these words seemed to encourage me. I flexed my fingers and lashed out quickly, snatching up the stone and sparing moments only to gag before I turned and sprinted back towards the door, back towards my own fresh pile of sick in the corner. The stone was clenched tight in my sweaty fist, my heart hammering as if I'd run from something for yards, not a few feet. I unfurled my fingers and eyed it now up-close. Something about it...

_Moonstone_. Of _course_. That door I'd first seen, the one with the crescent. This must have something to do with it... maybe open it somehow...

Back out into the hallway I went, the radio _bzzrt! bzzrt!_, the dog happily chewing away at its meal, me retching and trying not to get sick all over myself again. I approached the blue door and carefully examined the writing beneath the scarlet crescent moon, also outlined in red and likewise carved deep into the metal:

_Piling up the 300th day and night  
From beyond the door, cries of pain are heard  
And the final destination has become real  
Though not a blessed beginning _

... Right. Suddenly, I didn't know if I wanted to put the damn moonstone in the slot now. It didn't seem like a terribly inviting message, didn't inspire courage within me or want me to take a peak to see what caused these "cries of pain" were from beyond the door, or what was causing it. And yet... something about this "final destination" intrigued me, and it wasn't because of the crappy horror film made with the same name. It sounded a lot like what Claudia had said... and that pamphlet, too. There was something about it, vague though it might be, that seemed linked, bound by a thread so fine you could see through it, think it not there at all. I looked back down at the moonstone and weighed it in my palm, likewise weighing my chances behind the door.

_Though not a blessed beginning_... call it morbid curiosity, or reckless stupidity, but something about that made me feel this brazen pride. _Rebirth of Paradise, eh? Not likely._

There was something else about this note, though... something that made my body ache. My free hand strayed to press itself against my abdomen, rubbing hard at the muscles beneath in the same way when I get a cramp and try to push the pain back in, back down. My right hand lifted the moonstone to the free slot and before I could decide on what would be more practical, staying here or taking a chance beyond the door, I wedged the moonstone into the hole and heard the lock click back. I held my breath.

There was no cries of pain, no cries of any kind, really—just a silence. A heavy veil of voicelessness, a lack of sound, a lack of life. But this, too, was a sound. It was the sound of this place. _Nothing_ was its _something_.

I walked over the threshold and into that darkness, into that silence, feeling meek and feeble as my flashlight cut into what it could but illuminated very little. It only sought to remind me how useless it was against a shadow this omnipresent, this omnipotent. It was like a life of its own. Across the way I could see a jutting landing, the same tiles as the ones beneath my feet, leading to a long, plunging, silver ladder that descended into the same darkness, down into the very heart of it. I slowly made my way over to it, listening hard after each step for any sound, any hint of life or a whisper in the dark, but none came. I think I imagined most of it, imagined the heart in my chest thumping so hard that it was echoing all around me, calling others to life and rousing them from hibernation. If it did, nothing came. I was all alone.

Looking down from the landing to the bottomless pit below me, and the handy ladder that would guide me through it, I didn't feel any small portion of comfort. I swayed a little, held my hand to my forehead and did my best to settle down before I went toppling over the edge. It was just so... _high_, so impossibly distanced from anything else, from land or tiles or even a tangible _bottom_. How could it possibly _be_? Standing here above looking down at the shadows made me feel little apart from the shadows itself. And if I was to take the ladder down I'd be moving _into _that darkness, be pressing through the veils and the silence. I didn't know if I could handle that.

_Get a grip. Please, Heather. Just get a grip._

I breathed in deep, counted to ten up and down, and opened my eyes wide. The flashlight still worked, so at least there was that. The radio wasn't making any noise so there wasn't any baddies lurking about. The ladder seemed sturdy enough, impossibly connected from this top to whatever bottom lurked below. It didn't seem about to fall if I touched it—surprisingly, it was one of the few metallic objects I'd seen that appeared rust-free and brand new, recently constructed.

_Recently constructed_... I said the words to myself over again quietly, adopting the voice and manner of one attending a death bed. It would seem that I was on the right track going through that door, risking a stomach upheaval of epic proportions by snatching the moonstone, and standing here above looking below at all this... space. This nothingness. If the trickster god was guiding my steps now I couldn't help but think that she wanted me to be at this very moment, this very point in time, poised to descend on an impossibly new ladder into the unknowable.

"_'The final destination,'_" I said to myself, taking hold of the railings and carefully, slowly, bringing my feet to lay on one of the rungs. I held my breath and moved just as cautiously to the next rung, and the next after that, trying not to think of how far down a fall something like this would be. _What final destination? I wasn't here for that Paradise crap, I just wanted to go home._

Home. It was like a prayer to me—it sure sounded like one, too. I almost shivered at the force of it, holding on tightly to the metal rungs and hoping like hell my sweat didn't make me lose grip. That was the only destination I had in mind right now, the only one I even cared about. I didn't even care to think of the next line: _though not a blessed beginning_. After a place like this, home was _definitely _a blessing.

In hindsight, everything is 20/20.


	10. IX: A Split Personality

**Chapter IX – A Split Personality**

* * *

My luck with that "recently developed" ladder ran out as I reached the bottom of my long descent but it took me a little while to realize that. I couldn't help but get a little tired of how tedious of this entire journey down... down... My mind kept wandering off. It tended to do that a lot when my life wasn't being threatened by a grotesque abomination, so I had the luxury of a daydream. I thought about Katy, wondered if she was all right and if she'd be pissed at me for unintentionally ditching her. As long as she wasn't stuck in this nightmare fighting for her life, I could deal with that. Hell, I'd gladly accept her ire if it mean she was _alive_._Why_had I see that Claudia woman, though? Why not Katy? Claudia meant nothing to me, wasn't anyone important...

_Remember, Heather? 'Remember me, and your _true_self as well.'_

... But clearly I was to her. She'd laid out a lot in or brief discussion, I now realized. She thought all those monsters were just there to see the show, to see Paradise... Paradise she thought _I_would create.

_'With blood-stained hands...' _

As long as I've been having these weird nightmares no one had ever been dragged into it with me. I'd always been alone and until now that had been all right with me: I sure as hell didn't want my friends pulled into this because of me, didn't want to even _imagine_what it must feel for them to see what I'd seen, do what I've done. At least when I was alone I could handle the task of defending myself against these monsters, could steel myself for the shock of killing them... snuffing out their lives before they had a chance at mine. If I had to look Katy in the face after blasting rounds into those tall, long-armed freaks, or stomping the fleshy, soft skull of an armless cyclops I don't think I'd have the courage to pick up the gun and do it again, even to defend myself. I don't think I could even have the courage to look Katy in the face, afraid of the fear I'd see there, the condemning, questioning stare. Now for the first time I wasn't alone here... loathe though I was to appreciate the company, Claudia had managed what no one else had ever done: She was sharing this nightmare, she was a part of it, and she was able to _see_everything I saw. We may not have seen eye-to-eye about _why_it was happening or who was responsible but there was a strange... relief about not being alone here anymore, even if it _was_with a religious nut.

For all I knew I'd imagined her, imagined all of this... I almost wished it came to that: that I was snoozing somewhere, my brain responsible for all this. I could still be in Happy Burger drooling away at the window table, not climbing down a long-as-hell ladder into an abyss. I wasn't going to put much stock in that hope, though. That phone call to my dad had certainly been real enough—_and Douglas. _I chuckled. Couldn't forget about that creepy 'detective' guy, nor did I seem likely to: whether he knew it or not he certainly left an impression.

An idea occurred to me then, flitting as seamless as a moth drawn to a source of light, moving between my harassed worries of dad and Katy. Douglas had said something... _'There's someone who want to meet you...'_ And my first thought when I met Claudia had been to link these two...

"_They've come to witness the beginning." They? _Were there _more_of them here, waiting to find me? Well, that's a crappy idea. I'd hate to get so far along only to run into another cult weirdo. I was even more grateful now for brushing the Douglas guy off in case he turned out to be a part of it—and if he _was_a detective he needed to work on a more tactful approach.

_Now don't get carried away, Heather_. Well spotted. I couldn't know for sure if Claudia was referring to actual humans because her answer had come after I asked about the monsters. And I _still_stood by the idea that they couldn't witness anything, no matter what cracked out things she'd said. But maybe... it almost killed me to even _think_it, to let it surface in my mind as a reasonable idea instead of a distant fear, but maybe what were monsters to me weren't monsters to Claudia. Maybe we were seeing two completely different things, two faces for the same body. Maybe to her they were _people_. I nearly swayed right off the ladder at that thought. My palms were slick with cold sweat and my heart drummed madly, unevenly, in my chest. If that was even remotely true... who was the nutcase here? The person who saw the monsters, or the one who didn't?

_If you're finished, please mind your step._ Huh? Oh... I'd finally reached near the bottom. The ladder was starting to rust over at this point, flakes of it were rubbing off in my hand and it hurt to keep a firm grip on the rungs. The darkness seemed to contract, closing in as the space narrowed and I found myself staring inches away from a metal wall. The only signs of age were cracks, hairline and deep, and the same rust that coated the ladder and now my hands. In the background, behind every clunking step I made on the ladder, I could hear this steady tapping, like rain falling on a roof. I didn't rule out the possibility of it raining, but I very much doubted it was raining _here_, in this nightmare. My flashlight caught the fleck of dirt on the wall, twinkling like faint stars in a gray sky and as I breathed in I noted the smell of earth. Was I below ground? Turning around now would just make me dizzy; the slow descent from a high height still made me jittery, and I waited until my feet were planted on the ground before taking a good look around me.

The room was small, probably no bigger than a basement generator room or a storage area. It was small enough for my pocket flashlight to illuminate about a five-foot radius ahead to the side of me, even to give a vague hint at what was in the corners. Apart from six squares set into opposite walls there wasn't much to look at besides the rusted metal fences covering one of them, like grating across a pipeline so kids don't crawl inside. It looked quite sturdy, too—so I wouldn't be getting out through that particular hole. I treaded lightly, gazing around at the unfamiliar territory wondering what part of the mall this area was imitating. It was too small to be the inner-court on the ground floor and it looked nothing like it to boot: no fountain with glimmering change at the bottom, no fake tropical plants or other decorations, and any trace of the familiar tiled floor was gone completely, replaced by the gray, stained squares upon which I now gingerly crossed. If this was meant to be the inner-court I wondered at the distinct lack of these familiar sights. Surely whoever ran the show here could have come up with a way to make a fountain look sinister, yes? Maybe make it shoot blood or something...

My steps echoed in the compact room as I crossed it, warily eying the holes and the darkness within while looking for an alternate exit, perhaps a door or another ladder. It was then that I felt it. A warm air passed me by, fetid like some seriously bad case of morning breath and it made me shiver not from cold but horror. Something_unseen_was moving over me and the loud, splitting _CLANK!_ of crumbling metal distracted me from another noise besides my steps and the background, distant thudding: a low, ominous growl.

Turning to face the direction that strange _air_had moved to, my mouth fell open and all hope spilled from me in one breath. The remnants of the ladder lay in splintered piles on the ground, torn clean off like they were twigs and the ladder itself was now clear out of reach, its ends twisted and snapped. The notion that hope should be _just_out of my reach made me panic. The heat of it burst, molten, from my chest and made my skin pulse as sweat pooled on my brow. I was trapped in here, denied all chances of escape as it dangled five feet above me. Could it have been a trap? A trick?

It was then I noticed it—another _clank_, quieter than the one that ruined the ladder but somehow... sinister, more menacing. It was as if something had shifted and revealed its hiding place, and it was coming from behind me. I froze in place and waited, listening hard and straining my ears against all this pressing silence, trying to determine if it was coming closer, moving away, or if the sound had even happened at all. But there were more of them, angrier rattles and shakes that made the ground beneath me quiver, so much that I turned to look and to wait—if something was going to come after me I wanted to look it right in the face. Louder and louder the clanking grew, until... until...

The next sound was like something thick and heavy moving through a tube, sliding rapidly down it and to its destination. I stood there in horror, my face painted with nothing but the colors of shock as the sound came closer to me, as the fenced-up hole I'd just passed now burst from its hinges like it was nothing, twigs or a toy, scattering across the ground. The idea that a strong fence should crumble like that was second only to _the fucking thing that tore it off_. Its body was thick and long, something like a snake but at _least_ten times the size of any snake I saw. Its head split vertically, the swollen, purple flesh quivering as it opened wide and revealed a fierce set of jaws between the hood: whats worse was that it was a_human_ mouth. There was no mistaking that—being in the possession of one for all my life I'm pretty sure I could recognize it, but again this was much, much larger than any mouth I'd seen... And it was parted wide in a scream, a hissing, choked howl that cried out in anger. Inside its mouth were what looked to be spears or strange white hinges, preventing it from opening its jaw too wide—it made me think of phlegm hardened over time to something like a bone, and as I backed slowly away from this _thing_ I couldn't help but gag.

It hadn't noticed me thus far, just burst its way through the covering and was now stretching out its thick, full body, the hood around its mouth quivering excitedly, its jaw opened wide to roar and savor in its infiltration of the room, my small, temporary sanctuary. I felt my back hit the wall, the top of the ladder's twisted rung scratch against the crown of my head and tried my best not to hurl. My jaw could have unhinged itself in horror, I was gaping open-mouthed at the sight.

I had _never_seen anything like this up until this moment. 'Til now I thought I'd seen the worst of it, experienced the worst this place had to offer up—it wasn't nice to be proven so wrong in such a way, as if whoever was running the show was just _dying_to sic this thing out on me to show me how naïve I was to believe that. The long-armed monsters? The dogs? Hell, those floppy lamb-sounding things? _None of them _compared to this _thing_. Not a one. Most especially in size: this thing was _easily_ten times the size of me, probably as big as a freakin' house. There was no way my knife would do any good against it—which left me with the pistol.

How long did I have to figure out its weaknesses? How long would it take for this thing to realize that it wasn't alone and that I was basically a sitting duck waiting to be plucked and put in a stew? From this far back I couldn't make out much of the monster's exterior, if it had a hard shell or a fleshy body that would therefore be all the easier to stab and shoot and hack at with every bit that I could. The monster—it really looked like a worm now that I observed it: a massive, disgusting worm with a split head—began to shift and slither forwards, crashing through another hole in the space in front of it, wiggling itself obscenely, making my stomach lurch. The earth rumbled as it moved and as I watched its tail-end disappear into the tunnel a thought occurred to me: it was going to use the tunnels to shift in and out of the room.

I had to give the worm credit, then. The room itself was much too small for it to maneuver in freely due to its bulk, but by using the tunnels as navigation it could not only move about with ease it would keep me on my toes, keep me guessing and frantic—which would make me easier prey. It _definitely_knew I was here.

I bent quickly and snatched up all the metal rungs I could from the ladder, collecting them against my chest and balancing them in one arm while I held steady to my gun with the other. If it wanted to make a meal of me I'd make the bastard work for it. I held my breath and quickly sprinted across the room, hoping to make it to the other wall before it emerged once more, and I had just cleared the middle tunnel when I saw the worm burst out on my left—right out of the tunnel I was heading towards.

I reared back and tried to stop but my momentum carried me, making me lose my balance. Some of the rungs clattered from my hand onto the floor, their metallic shriek lost in the wet growl of the worm as it slithered its way closer, closer... I could hear my heart pounding, aching and lifted, forcing itself into the back of my throat and making air so precious and so few. It was headed right for me, it was going to gobble me up and swallow me whole and I'd never figure out what the hell happened here, I'd never find out what happened to my dad or to Katy and I'd be all alone and trapped—

It's first set of jaws opened wide, revealing the massive mouth and disturbingly human teeth inside. The hood of its first jaws shivered with pleasure and I couldn't help but dry heave, a sob mixed in as my terror broke in fresh waves. I could barely think—I had the gun! This should have been easy! I had some small portion of defense on my side! The sight of this thing drew all comforts from my mind. I was entranced by it, at once horrified and hypnotized. It would win, I just knew it—

It's strange, really, what happened next. This idea of defeat... of me feeling defenseless and frightened beyond my wits... it broke something in me. Not to say that it ruined something, but it broke something _open_, cracked the seal and let it out into the world. It... it was a lot like when I first fought that dog in my nightmare, the rush that overtook me, that covered every inch of myself in tautly honed rage. There was no way I was going to let it win. There was no way I'd let it have control over me—no way _in hell_.

My free hand seized the closest metal rung, the end sharp and fragmented into a menacing tip, and I lifted it high as the worm moved closer, its heavy body hissing against the dirt and metal, its teeth parted, mouth opened wide, ready to suck me in. I prepared myself for it, pressed my heels hard into the ground and let the rung swing loose from my hand with all the strength I could muster—which turned out to be a lot. It moved like a javelin through the air, cut a path that flashed in the darkness and the insipid illumination of my flashlight—and landed hard in the damned thing's open mouth, piercing the fleshy pulp of its hood, bursting through the back of it with a wet slap.

The worm roared louder than ever, an echoing, gaping sort of howl and I flung myself forwards, ignoring the pain of my newly-lacerated knees and thighs, pressing myself against the wall as the worm flailed and writhed, dragging its injured self to the tunnel in front of it. Blood gushed from the wound and smeared itself over the floor in a gory meridian. I turned to watch it disappear, its rear end receding slower than before due to the wound—I doubted that I did considerable damage to it. I must have just taken it off guard more than anything, but I didn't care. The sight of its blood... well... it pleased me. I could feel myself smiling, could feel the surge of grim pleasure that raced through me, replacing and flushing out all my fears. I was going to win—I wouldn't let myself lose. Not to this thing, and certainly not here.

Its weakness was apparent: the open mouth was the most sensitive, the most fragile. What I had to do now was also apparent, but less comforting: I had to play the bait, draw it out and let it get close enough to open its jaws and prepare to bite me before I struck out.

"_No problem_," I whispered, my eyes blazing and my mouth contorted into a leer. The idea of dangling myself in front of the worm and so quickly denying it the pleasure of consuming me made me feel... well... I was thrilled. I _wanted_to tease it, I _wanted_to lead it on only to crush it with only my hands and this barking pistol. I wanted to give it hope and then strike it down. The very thought empowered me.

I pushed myself to my feet and felt the warm trickle of blood running down my knees: my sudden contact with the ground hadn't gone over well with my exposed skin, but I didn't pay too much attention to it right now. I would use it to my advantage—surely the smell of it would lure the worm out of hiding, would drive it wild with hunger if I played it up. I quickly retrieved one of the metal rungs I had dropped and pressed the tip against my wound, pushing more blood from the cut and smearing it over the edge. I waited until I could feel the ground rattling beneath me, a sure sign it was approaching again, daring to come out of hiding, before I backed up a little, giving myself a wider view of the room. I could see it bursting out from the furthest tunnel, near the busted ladder and I made a mad dash towards it, my bloody rung in hand.

With another weight thrust I hurled the rung at the creature, not aiming to hit it, just distract it—to get the scent of my blood on the air. The worm's head twitched and froze in the direction where the rung had landed and I could see its first jaw quivering, itching to open wide and take a bite. I moved closer as silently as I could, lifting the pistol up in my hand and moving my thumb against the trigger. I'd pump as much lead as I could into this thing before it realized its mistake and found me. Triumphantly I watched as it parted its first jaws at last and roared, the first rung still impaled through the top part of its hood, sending a torrent of blood down its front and into its open mouth, staining the white teeth a garish crimson. It thought it had me! The stupid beast...

I positioned myself in front of the open jaw and aimed, keeping my feet planted and my arms steady. I pulled back the trigger and fired. Again. And again. And again. Each shot brought my arms back in a recoil, each casing clattering to the floor at my feet and scattering, little metal pellets lost in the darkness, and the sound of bullets sinking and hitting the wet, pulpy flesh of the worm was like music to my ears. I smiled wide as each shot struck true, an impressive feat as I had a shaky head and even worse aim at best—and near to grinned when the worm's screams intensified, turning into harrowing sputters of pain and anguish. It spat and writhed, snapping its jaws at the open air and groping blindly for me. I wouldn't disappoint it.

I moved closer to it, keeping one hand on the gun and extending the other to grasp at the metal rung. I had to move fast or it would seize me, and I couldn't very well imagine a clever way to get out of that situation—a part of me, the part beneath the bloodlust and the thrill of it all, was going mad in fright. I could feel it shifting beneath me, desperate to get out, to flee. I wouldn't let it stop me. Nothing could stop me, not now.

My movements were quick, precise and determined. In one swipe I pulled free the metal rung, the wound gaping and pouring, making wet slobbering and sucking noises as the rung was pulled free. In the instant the worm took to react to the pain—the stupid, pathetic thing—I inserted the rung into its jaw and used it to prop the mouth open: it wouldn't be able to latch onto me this way, not with an eight inch pole stuck into its tongue and mouth. Lastly I dared to risk shoving my arm into its very mouth, careful not to make contact with the teeth lest I trigger them the bite, or the hood of the first jaw to swing shut and envelope me, and aimed the gun _up_.

It was all a simple matter from there to pull the trigger and turn my face away from the carnage—not out of disgust, really, more so to avoid the splatter.

As it lay there, dying, I wiped off the stains from the gun with my hands, then rubbing my stained hands on the hem of my skirt, not caring how hard it would be to get out in the laundry. I felt damned pleased with myself for doing that, for having the courage to do it, the willpower and the strength. How many could say the same? Well, that was a moot point really—I doubted anyone else had ever been placed in such a situation or put to the test by a massive worm monster, so I was alone in the category but still proud nonetheless.

It was then I could feel the darkness around me expanding—the feeling I had after leaving the bookstore, when the nightmare invaded, was going in reverse, was rewinding itself and retreating. The world was opening wide, as was the light and the air—I could feel myself moving between the worlds without ever taking a step. It made my head spin, the bloodlust receding faster than it had even come on, and I reeled, my eyes pounding in their sockets, my heart sinking down my throat and back to its proper spot in my chest.

The mall was just like it was before—undoubtedly it was way past closing time, due to the silence and the faint light. The shops were barred with metal cages and shields, the fountain sat quiet and empty, its collection of pocket change glittering at the bottom. Nothing moved, nothing stirred—there was nothing in here but me.

I pressed my hand to my forehead and squeezed my fingers to my temples. "_What_?" It seemed the only word capable to express my utter bewilderment. The worm, the tunnels... had they ever really existed at all? And how could something so large just.. _vanish_ without a trace?

"It's the shopping mall... just like before." Speaking aloud allowed the truth to sink in. I lowered my hand and gazed around me once more, taking in as much as I could of my surroundings to further seal the deal.

"Am I back?" Was this just another trick of the nightmare? I wouldn't put it past the thing... lead me into a false sense of security before you swing down the lid and trap me in a cage. It seemed fitting considering the cruelty of all I had gone through so far. I kept my hand firmly wrapped around my gun as I made my way to the only metal casing that had not completely descended, which was quite the blessing as I would've been trapped here until morning—which wouldn't do too well for me, considering my condition and the weapon I was carrying. I had to crawl to make it through the gap and I winced as I pressed my knees to the tiled floor. I was wounded—and remembering that brought the pain back with full force. As I got to my feet I saw that I had smeared blood across the ground and the thought worried me—would they call in the police? Would they get someone at a lab to test it? But now I was just being stupid, worrying for worrying's sake.

_Just focus on getting out of here. That's all that matters right now._

I nodded.

_Go find a bathroom and clean up._

I shuffled forwards and made my way towards the extending corridor on my right—it was the same one I had turned down after waking up in_Happy Burger_... right where I'd met that detective guy, at the start of all this madness. I passed by the phones without much care, focusing instead on the nearing door of the ladies room as if it were a beacon of hope, a trophy that would signify the greatest victory of all: cleanliness. I pushed the door open and nearly collapsed on the floor. The force of the fall seemed to rattle something loose inside of me because at that moment tears sprung to my eyes as if they were waiting for their chance to ooze and fall. I took a great, shuddering breath and began to sob. It wasn't one thing... nor was it really many things. It was all of them and nothing, it was a mixture and nothing at all: the horror of what I'd done, of what I was being forced to do... of what I _liked_doing. I wouldn't kid myself into thinking that those moments of pure pleasure when causing pain didn't exist as I would be lying to myself. And I'm not a great liar—dad could always spot it and would call me out for it when I was younger... and of course that thought lead me to feel sorrow, dismal agony at the thought of being so far removed from my father, from any trace of home or comfort.

"What's_wrong with me?!"_ I howled, burying my face into my hands, feeling the vaguest trace of warmth from the worm's blood, smelling the coppery, metallic scent of it as it filled my nostrils and shot own to my lungs. I only sobbed harder, my face a mess of snot and tears, my grief reaching fever pitch as to be one of hysterics. "What's... _wrong... with me?!_" I didn't care if there was someone lurking in the stall, something waiting behind the doors or just out of sight, ready to spring itself upon me. There was something alive inside me, some secret, some..._thing_ completely different and more dangerous that I'd ever been, than any emotion I'd ever felt in my life. It was an inhuman cruelty, almost mad... and it could seize control over me whenever it wanted. I was weak and powerless—against myself.


	11. X: Nothing's All

**A/N: **Again, I've altered a few bits in this chapter to keep up what I think is a better flow of narration or story pacing. Dialog bits have changed, as have the ways that Heather makes it onto the train and then to the underground passage in the next chapter. Sorry about the delay in updating.

* * *

**Chapter X – Nothing's All**

I had to get out of here, that much was certain. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that my time in this place was sure to make me Bedlam bound, and even if I couldn't get a permanent reprieve from the insanity, a temporary delay would be just as preferable. I'd take anything to give me a break, to give me time to breathe and collect myself. I guess that's why I was so stubborn and stayed as long as I could in that bathroom, sitting cross legged on the floor and not wanting to move an inch, barely sparing the effort to do more than breathe and blink. My gun sat on the floor beside me, glaring, waiting to be noticed and used. It nearly hummed when my fingers strayed to it—I could feel the vibration in my fingers, but shook that thought away quickly as my hand was shaking. Though I hated to rely on it, it was my only defense against… everything, anything.

Gathering up the pieces of myself, taking a deep breath to try and hold it all in, I pushed myself off the floor and back onto my feet. The door gave a satisfying click behind me as it swung shut, briefly interrupting the stillness of the air and the lack of any other noise. The mall was blissfully silent and I basked in the comfort of it, enjoying the totally mundane, normal scenery. How funny that I would never look twice at the place before now, would never concern myself with paying any attention to it at all on any other day, at any other time. Even the potted plants brought a great comfort to me. I ran my hands over the leaves carefully as I walked past, noting that many of the stores' shutters were drawn and locked. The floors were clean and newly buffered – everything was as it should be, all in its right place.

How late was it and for how long had I been… wherever the hell I had been? I glanced at my watch and almost skidded along the glimmering tiles.

Eleven forty-five. Over three hours had passed in what felt like an immeasurable length of time, but that wasn't the only thing that was bothering me. Dad would certainly be worried about me, and even worried was a great understatement. Had he left home to try and find me? Or was he still stuck in our apartment, too torn between looking for me himself or staying put to see if I'd turn up or give him a call?

_Or get a call that someone _else _found me._ I shivered, not wanting to let my mind stray too far in that direction. My dad, worry wart to the extreme, was not the person to be left to the comforts of his own imagination. If he was left to its thrall for a long enough time, he'd be in a right state, agitated to tears or even worse, to shouts, which is something he rarely did with me. He just wasn't a yelling type of person; it wasn't in his personality to raise his voice above a pleasant conversation's pitch. I thought about trying the phones, of doubling back and seeing if I could coax one to work, but something ahead of me caught my eye.

The mall's exit was unblocked, exactly where I'd left it hours before, exactly where it _should _have been all this time.

And sitting on one of the benches near the glass doors was Douglas.

I don't know what came over me in that moment, but the anger I'd felt towards everything that had so far barred my path or came at me, intending to spill my blood, rushed back into me like a tidal wave. I didn't want to _kill_ him, no it wasn't that extreme – hurt him, maybe, or perhaps most definitely – but more than that I wanted _answers_. I wanted a goddamned explanation, and he'd been the first of many weird new additions to my day. He'd be the first one to give me answers. I'd make sure of it.

Dad would have killed me if he saw what I did next – I could almost hear his voice in my head, probably the sane and sensible part of me adopting his stern tone in an attempt to talk me out of approaching a very strange stranger, but I didn't pay any attention. I was too far gone in my anger to care about sensible things like caution and tact. Stomping as hard as I could on the ground I approached the first set of doors at a brisk walk, slamming my hands into the handle and flinging the door open wide.

Douglas looked round as I approached, his eyes wide, his lined and scruffy face tense, almost chalk white with – what was it, surprise? Fear? Was he not expecting me to be alive? Or was he expecting someone else? That eyebrow-less freak, Claudia, perhaps? I wanted to shout at him the moment he noticed I was there but bit down hard on the urge, grinding my teeth together instead.

I kept a wide enough distance between the two of us, angling myself closer towards the subway entrance on my left but keeping myself turned to stare him down, not letting him take me by any sort of surprise should he try anything fishy. Who knows what he had hidden in that trench coat. An ascending set of escalators flanked us, one on his side and the other behind me. Their quiet hum was the only noise I could hear over the sound of my own frantic pulse and thunderous steps.

Douglas rose to his feet and began to move towards me, his eyes wide and his face lighting up. "Heather!" He called unnecessarily, sounding oddly relieved. This took me off guard but I didn't let it show – my dislike was so apparent it nearly burned my mouth, making my tongue blister. His voice was scratchy and raw, as if he'd spent the better part of the past few hours screaming – or the past thirty years smoking.

I lifted my finger and jabbed it into the air between us like a knife. Douglas stopped in his tracks and winced – for a second I thought that I'd used my gun to complete the gesture, but no, there it was tucked securely in my right hand. He was eying that, too, as if he was unsure what to make about this latest addition to my arsenal.

_Not going to try anything funny now are you, old fart?_ But when I tried to speak to him my words were jumbled and, sadly, ineffective. My anger had filtered all the barbs and verbal skewering I'd longed to deliver, turning them into the indignant rage of a teenage girl, cranky and just slightly in need of a good, long nap. "_You_ – you must be one of them!"

"One of… who? What are you talking about? What did _I _do?" Douglas shrugged, gesturing with his hands and regarding me as if I were a lunatic – which I probably did seem to him, what with the gun and everything. And maybe all those blood stains that I hadn't bothered to wash off me. If it kept him at a safe distance, I wouldn't complain. What did _I _care what this man thought of me?

"That _Claudia _woman," I sneered. Whatever spare ire I had left in me was channeled into those three detestable syllables of her name. I nearly spat out the words like vomit, spewing it into the air and stopping his protesting, disbelieving features dead in place. "You're in on this with her, I know you are."

"Claudia… what about her?" Sensing that I was about to pounce – whether figuratively or literally, and to be honest I'm quite sure I would have thrown myself at him given the chance – Douglas hurried on, eager to make some sort of peace. "She just asked me to find you, that's all. She's the one who wanted to speak to you earlier – she disappeared before I could find her again, and… and then…" his raspy voice trailed off, dying and breaking into fragments. The look on his face was haunted and almost ancient, his eyes looking more like the black void I'd seen in that other world, that nightmare. I knew instantly that I hadn't been the only one to experience that insane Otherside, but I found it very hard to feel sympathy for him. His statement rang in my ears and made me skin prickle. He _admitted to it!_

"So you _are _in this together!" It wasn't a question. I didn't have time to waste on giving him ample opportunity to come up with excuses or too easily revealed truths. Just how useless of a detective _was _this guy? Still, he'd managed to find me, to follow me here and know my name – and that struck a nerve that was already pulsing and sore. I felt invaded and exposed, outraged at the shame of this man stumbling into my life and making a mess of what was already quite messed up without his bungling efforts. "Just what's _wrong_ with you two, anyway? What gives you the right to come here – to follow me – to… to… send all those weird things after me?"

Douglas was shaking his head, looking disbelieving. I couldn't tell if he was shaking off my accusations or the information I'd just given him. He seemed to be trying to deny it, to put things into focus in his brain. "You think Claudia did that?" He asked, dubious.

"According to _her_ it's 'The Hand of God,'" I waved my hands, flashing the gun again as I gestured. Douglas drew back with a frightened look, and his expression made my stomach flip with an odd sort of glee. Good. I was scaring him. Serves him right, serves them _both_ right, and when I caught up with that Claudia bitch I'd do the same to her.

"Look," Douglas started again, once more trying to bring peace to the warzone of our conversation. "I'm sorry that… that you had to meet her unprepared. She isn't an easy lady to deal with under normal circumstances, but… whatever she said to upset you can't be taken seriously. She was probably just in shock or upset – _you're_ probably just upset, too."

"You're damn right I'm upset," I snarled.

"Heather, _listen_," Douglas implored, and there was something about his new expression and his soft tone that made me pause, made me hesitate with my next few words. He spoke just like my dad, never raising his voice, never trying to shout me down into a submissive silence. The gleeful flip of my stomach sank like a stone until I felt heavy and almost hungry with how badly I wanted to see my dad again. "I'm not here to hurt you – you can trust me on that, I promise. I'm not on anybody's side, and I'm only here because I was asked to find you. I don't know anything _about_ this…" He trailed off, his eyes darting once again to my gun and to the smear of blood on my boots and hands. His eyes found my face once more and he continued after our moment of silence, taking advantage of my brief calm. "Why don't you tell me what happened to you – are you hurt? Where did you disappear to? And that monster!" Douglas' voice rose, his stress apparent. Obviously he had wanted to ask this all along but hadn't the chance. "What the hell _was_ that?"

I took down several gulps of air, not knowing even where to begin answering. "I don't know any more than you do, so I can't give you any answers. Why not ask Claudia when you see her, if you're such good pals?"

"If she's going to blame it on God, I don't think that'd be much of an answer."

My lips twitched involuntarily, a hint of a smirk flashing over my face before I wrestled control again and willed myself to be disapproving and distant, glaring at him hard under my sweaty fringe. "Well it's better than nothing. And I'm fine – I mean, I _was _fine, until you two came along and messed everything up. And by the way, that monster? Well you're going to have to be a bit more specific because I've seen more than _one_ of those while I was stuck in that hellhole, so I'm sorry if I can't give you the proper details. Where would you like me to start?"

My rant had silenced him. His eyes stayed wide and his lips parted, revealing to me slightly yellowing, straight teeth. I took another breath and plowed on, building steam. "All I can tell you, and this probably isn't news to you, is that there's something… _screwy_ going on here. Screwy isn't even the _word_ for it, doesn't even come close to describing it, but it's happening and it's been happening and – " I paused, surprised at the words that were building up now, not even knowing where my brain was going, the words were just pouring out like blood from a wound that wouldn't stay shut. "I've got a feeling it's got something to do with me. Or maybe I'm innocent, I don't know, maybe I'm just… just a bystander, but none of this would have happened if _you _hadn't shown up. If you hadn't poked your nose around, if you had just kept to your damn self – if you hadn't found me…"

But it wasn't true. I knew it wasn't true. I'd been having these shifts for years now, hadn't I? And they'd been getting worse all the while, all of it building up like a dam about to burst.

_But never like this_, I argued with myself. _Never this bad, never like this… _Which was only partially true, and I knew that, too. I couldn't understand where this was coming from. It wasn't anger, no, it didn't burn or char at my insides, it was a cool, frightened sort of calm that rushed through me and snuffed out the flames of my ire. It was a dread – it was a child backed into a corner with no where else to turn, tearful and frightened, trying desperately to keep the inevitable at bay as long as she could, staring in disbelief at what was happening, at what was _bound_ to happen.

_It's about your birth_, Douglas had said. _Remember me, and your _true _self as well, _Claudia had said.

Something about these words… they were the reason why I felt this way, cornered and frightened, beaten down and too weak to run away, to fight back or defend myself. My birth… my self… what right did they have to stir up those still waters? What possible reason could they have for picking at a wound that took so long to heal?

"What do you mean?" Douglas breathed, though he was fast losing his patience with me. Obviously he had approached me with a thirst for answers, too. I was glad to disappoint him. "What's so special about _you_, Heather?"

"You're the one investigating me, so shouldn't I be asking that question?" I spat back, but as quick as it had flared up again my anger sputtered, gutted and dead, replaced once again by that icy dread. My head was spinning. I was shaking, barely able to stand as I turned slowly, away from Douglas, turning my eyes away from the world around me, drawing back again to that hallway, to those visions, those flashes of color or memory – were they memory? Or was it just a nightmare in a nightmare, a never ending series of spirals from which I couldn't escape?

The silence dragged on. I could feel Douglas' concern and his curiosity burning behind me but I didn't let my attention linger too long on him. There was something more, something pressing at me from inside, from all around – I could hear it but couldn't understand the words, could see it but not, the images blurry and indistinct.

"But… I know there's something…" I was talking before I even realized the words were coming out of me, before I was even aware that my mouth was moving again. My voice was distant and broken, a fragile thing that withered. "I've been running from it for as long as I've forgotten about it – something…"

I could smell gauze and disinfectant, a flowery sort of perfume that couldn't be coming from me, couldn't be my smell at all. I was charred and hollow, a pulp that oozed and wept and bled, wept just like the owner of the hands that tended to me, that heavenly, beautiful face that peered down at me, trying to hide her revulsion and pity, feeling guilty for them both. I could smell the blood as it left me, could feel the pain as ribbons of skin peeled off with every new bandage, none of it ever healing, never getting any better, always staying the same, always the same – the nightmare, the blood, the tears that weren't mine but were wept on my behalf, the soft screams I would make if I could only have my voice. I swooned and nearly lost my balance, my eyes rolling in their sockets, my head throbbing like a beaten drum.

"What's wrong?" I could hear Douglas move closer to me, could almost feel his hands as they reached out to steady me, but I was moving again, against my better judgment, against the will of my body that ached to fall back onto something reliable, onto something warm, to feel secure and whole.

"Nothing," I lied hurriedly.

"Where are you going?" Douglas called after me.

"The subway, I'm taking it home," I groped for some semblance of normalcy. Now that everything _was _back to normal that shouldn't be so hard a thing to do. I was rounding the corner and making my way down the first few steps before Douglas spoke again, still soft, still raspy and lost.

"What should _I _do?"

"Hell if I know." I barely knew what _I _should do, besides high tail it out of there and head home as soon as I could. "Take care of your own damn self," I muttered, knowing he couldn't hear me, but even as I said it I wondered, with a hollow sort of curiosity, whether Douglas would make it out safe a second time.

I moved fast, almost at a run, hoping he wouldn't follow me again, hoping to outrun the nightmare, to keep it at bay as long as I could, as if by sprinting I would leave it in the dust. The usual entrance I took was strangely locked up tight, so I had to veer off to the left, taking a way I knew would take me around longer than I wanted to be, would have to make me wander more before I found my station. As I made my way down the winding corridor plastered with ads and freshly-covered up graffiti, a little flare of panic set off in the back of my mind, blazing forwards: this place was empty, too. Sure it was late, but I didn't see a stray traveler, janitor, night-time clerk or even your friendly neighborhood hobo milling about. I couldn't hear any sounds, either. No footsteps, not a cough nor a muffled voice in the distance. There was nothing but silence, that horrible noise that wasn't and still was at the same time. The nothing had become something in this place, the nothing _was _normal for this place, but it would never be normal for me.


	12. XI: Fear of Fours

**Author's Note: **Once again, this is just as edited as previous installments because a great deal of the subway is backtracking and running and silliness for the sake of puzzles and it doesn't exactly translate well into a fic. Also I kinda wrote myself into a mess up here--apparently SH3 takes place in 1997, and in a previous chapter I have it in 2000. Sorry about that. I'll go back and fix my mistake :3

**Chapter XI -- Fear of Fours**

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I'd used this subway lots of times before, happier times, times much more different than my current situation. Its close range to the mall, and the nearby station three blocks down from our high school, made it easy for Katy and me to ditch class and head out to shop or just wander around when we could have been in Calculus or American History. Plus the St. Renata College train pretty much guaranteed the constant flow of people our age to talk to, bum cigarettes from, or pickpocket (if we were broke enough and they were clueless enough). Katy had a sister in St. Renata, and her boyfriend Tom had spent a few semesters there, studying Journalism I think, so I'd see her off when she went to visit either one of them. I never tagged along even if she invited me--third wheels are no fun, even if you're just the third wheel to sisters.

The Bergen Street line on Platform 3 ran from my town to the mall, usually about a half hour's trip if there weren't any technical delays or some suicidal weirdo that backed us up. Not too unbearable, but I wanted to be home _now_. I could feel a tantrum building up inside me, I even had the foot stomp and a pout prepared, but it was useless. _Just suck it up and keep going_.

The concourse area was deserted when I got there, and dark--a little too dark, really… Sure it was nearing midnight so it wasn't exactly rush hour, but that usually meant St. Renata kids would be here, waiting for the last train home. Or even your typical subway bum preparing to hunker down on a bench for the night. There wasn't any of that, though--there wasn't anyone but myself. It's not that I didn't notice this, or that I didn't think it was weird at the time, I just didn't _really_ notice it, I didn't let it sink into my head and process the thought that all this nothing should indicate that nothing would go the way I wanted it to. I was too focused on going home. Maybe I was getting too used to the weirdness. I even turned my flashlight on and didn't think anything of it. It was a conditional response to the dark.

Things didn't start to bother me until I walked past the payphones--one of them, I'm not sure which one, gave a loud, single _brrrrrrring!_ as I approached. I screamed a little bit, and did this sort of flail only a total spaz would do, something I'd never admit to anyone and yet I openly admit here, and somehow in my panic I managed to turn and stare at the line of phones. They didn't move--_of course they wouldn't move_--and they didn't make another sound. I stood there for what must've been ten minutes just to make sure of that.

I knew I didn't make it up. I _know_. I'd heard it--I could almost still hear the noise echoing in the wide, open space of the terminal void of any other sound or feature but myself. I could hear it echoing inside my head, the trill on loop over and over until it became this whining drone, like a drill, like a siren. It made me dizzy, so I backed off and found a bench to sit on. My fingers were shaking when I pried them off the gun before setting it down on the bench next to me, and I pressed my hand into my face. My skin was clammy with sweat, my lips trembling. I was a wreck, all over a damn _phone_.

As I tried to calm down I watched the beam of light from my flashlight bob up and down on the unusually clean floor of the concourse, its illumination shuddering with my breath and every move. My brain sort of drifted off for a few seconds as I kept watching it, my eyes losing focus. I was _tired_, so tired... guess the adrenaline could only last for so long before my body nose-dived and spiraled into its usual weak state.

My bones popped as I stretched my arms over my head, and as I twisted from side to side on my waist I noticed a newspaper thrown on top of one of the ticket dispensers near the turnstyles. That was reassurring, proof that someone had been around recently. Out of habit more than interest, I snatched it up and noticed an article that was curiously bent, as if someone had folded the top corner of it for later reading or particular interest. It wasn't a very long article--some small little space-waster between the really interesting stuff and maybe a horoscope or the weather report. It was about this station...

**Fatal Accident at Hazel Street**. _At about 11PM on the 4th, a man waiting on the platform at the Hazel Street station fell onto the tracks and was decapitated by the arriving St. Renata College-bound train._

"Gross," I mumbled, pulling a face. I kept reading.

_The victim died instantly. While police have not yet determined whether the death was an accident or suicide, witnesses report that the victim did not look inebriated and seemed to jump off the platform deliberately. The victim's identity is still unknown. He was approximately 40 years old, 5 feet 10 inches tall, and was wearing a black jacket._

It went on for another sentence asking for anyone with any clues to come forward, including a number where the police could be reached (it also assured callers that any information would remain anonymous at their choice).

_Weird_, I thought. _I didn't hear about this_. It wasn't like it was anything new or really exciting--people and trains don't mix very well, especially if the guy really _did_ jump and crazy people just don't mix well with anything--but it was still sensational enough for the local news to report. Even the biddies in our apartment would've gossiped about it, maybe made a stink about how it must have something to do with the gap between the platform and the trains themselves. They were always trying to blame their own stupidity on something else's design flaw, as if they couldn't see it was their own. I shut the newspaper and was about to tuck it aside when an article on the bottom of the front page caught my eye.

**Audrey Hepburn Succumbs to Cancer** the headline said, followed by a tinier _Hollywood Mourns A Classic Favorite_.

I remembered that. It wasn't all over the news or anything, but my dad had mentioned it. He'd been a fan of her films when he was younger, and though he didn't tell me much about it I kind of got the hint that the movie _Roman Holiday _had meant something special to him and mom. He didn't talk about it much, but he did invite me to join on a marathon of her films a few days after she passed away. I have to admit, I hadn't paid much attention to it--I was thirteen andthe deaths of actresses who were popular before I was even born wasn't very high on my list of concerns (and it still isn't). That wasn't really the issue here.

The issue was that it was four years ago. This newspaper was four years old.

_Yep_. Checking the date, it said exactly that--January 20th, 1993.

What this paper was doing here I had no idea--there's no reason for it to have stayed in circulation and I can't really imagine why someone would hold onto it, much less decide to chuck it in a train station of all places. It belonged in a recycling bin, really, but most people were probably too lazy for that. There was something about the date that bothered me--I mean, why wait over a week to report on some guy's death? Maybe it was a reprint--maybe they were still looking for information about who the guy was and thought they'd benefit by repeating themselves. It couldn't have taken them _that _long to hear the news.

The other problem was the number four. I hated that number, the way some superstitious people avoid the number thirteen or a triple 6. I wasn't really superstitious, at least not about most things that people would typically be, but this number just bothered me. Katy had told me that in some Asian country the number four was the same word used for the word "death"--some people went so far as to avoid putting a fourth floor in hospitals, which is a little extreme I guess. It still sorta creeped me out that the two words could meean two totally different things--it didn't help that the combination of this being four years old and happening on the fourth--with the guy being _forty_-years-old to boot--basically added up to a death trifecta.

But I was getting a little ahead of myself. I was also acting really stupid. Four's just a number, it's just a stupid paper, and for all I know it's probably a prank some loser with a really good printer made up. I stuffed it into the trash on my way to the turnstyles--the shudder and the click was loud, horrible, like that damn phone. The other side of the concourse was just as empty and dark as the first part. I'd have to hurry up if I wanted to make it home in time. If the trains were even still running...

It was even darker on the platform. Either Hazel Street station didn't pay their bill or something was on the fritz. I didn't try to think of the alternatives--not when the number four could freak me out so badly. There was no way _that _could happen again... I walked up towards the yellow paint on the metal grate just before the platform ended and took a good look down either side of the tunnel. Nothing was coming--nothing was leaving either. There wasn't anyone else even waiting. Had I missed it? Shouldn't this place be locked up if it was after closing time?

Since when did subways even _close_? Isn't there like, some unspoken rule that means they have to be kept open or something?

I sighed--and froze.

I could hear someone else breathing, shuddering, soft rasps like he or she (it had to be a he, only guys are that creepy) was excited, their breath coming fast and sudden. Every inch of my skin crawled with disgust, as if his breath was on me, as if I could feel it moving over my neck and down the back of my shirt. I couldn't move, I wanted to be sick, to keel over and scream or puke or just curl up and away from whatever it was that was moving behind me, breathing on me. I started to pitch forward--

The train howl was blasting in my ear before I was even aware of what it was. The crackle of the rails on the track as the train roared into the station, and the oncoming slipstream of wind knocked me not forwards, where I'd be just as dead as the guy in that outdated article, but backwards. I couldn't hear the breathing anymore, I couldn't even hear my own breathing or the scream I surely made at the sudden noise and train's appearance. Everything was moving too fast, it was like a movie, or someone else's life, a return to the nightmare I couldn't escape no matter how awake I thought I was.

The concrete platform was cold beneath my hands and legs--suddenly I regretted being in a skirt--and I held my head, pressing against the throbbing ache building on the left side above my eye. The train shuddered to a halt, and I could hear a door hissing open but it didn't sound close by. Just my luck, I'd have to schlep to find it. A quick check behind me showed that nothing was there, not a creeper, not even a trash can or a sleeping hobo, but that didn't exactly make me feel any better. I didn't like to think that I'd imagined a noise like that--the power of my imagination was proving just as helpful as my skirt.

At least the trains were still running. That was on my side, if nothing else.

Of course the last door of the train had to be the one that opened. _Figures_, I thought as I walked down the platform along the length of the train, peeking inside at every window I passed. No one was on board but the lights were all on--that was comforting. Maybe they'd all caught a previous ride and I was the only poor sap stuck at the end of the line. I tried to think of a good excuse to give any conductor if they harassed me about not having a ticket--maybe I could beg off that I'd been mugged or something. But there didn't seem to be any conductors on board, either.

I was barely inside the train before the doors slid shut, clicking solidly behind me. Stupidly, really it was stupid of me to do, I turned around and beat my hands against the door frantically, in a panic--it was all so sudden, all of it, my brain wasn't exactly firing on all cylinders--but it didn't do any good. Why should it? The train lurched once before it gathered steam, pulling out slowly out of the station. I stared dully as the car I was in passed the last part of the platform, the one I'd been standing on when the train first arrived, and though I couldn't be sure I thought I saw something standing on the edge near the yellow hazard paint, something that looked like a tall man in a black coat. Blinking was enough to make him disappear, but the image stayed with me, painted on the back of my eyes, lingering like the fear that spread in the pit of my stomach. Would I even make it home?


	13. XII: One Wonders When One Wanders

Sup sluts, I'm back. Also, I figured this would be a good time to point out that 1: Holy shit this story is almost 60k words and _we aren't even in Silent Hill yet;_ 2: I'm sorry this took me years to pick up again. It should comfort you to know that I've written two novels, traveled abroad, and am nearing my undergraduate studies' completion instead of working on fanfic. I wasn't dicking around; 3: If I said that I'm going to be changing a shitton of stuff to suit my liking and to make SH3 a better, stronger story, would you be mad at me? You can totally be mad at me, I just won't give a shit.

This chapter was actually half written/nearly finished for a year or so now, but I never really found the courage to finish it properly. Did I mention I have anxiety problems and manic depression? Well I do. But now I'm in therapy and taking care of myself and so I'm able to write and work through that, so I hope you enjoy the results.

K, here we go.

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**Chapter XII – One Wonders When One Wanders**

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The train creaked and wobbled as it gained speed and rushed through the tunnel, the tracks shifting ever so slightly with tiny changes in direction. A quick look around the compartment was enough for me, thanks—this place was filthy. Disgusting. Everything covered in a film like dirt and sawdust, the dandruff of the world scratched off and made to fall along the floor, the graffiti covered walls, the benches that shivered in their metal bolts. Everything looked seconds away from crumbling, like structures preserved in ash that would fall when met with a sigh. My face registered my far from kind thoughts as I moved towards the end of the compartment, my reflection faint in the windows that were scratched or broken in jagged gashes, letting in a streams of air that made my skin prickle.

No, it wasn't just the air. It was this whole situation... there was something about this place, something wrong, something horrible, and I'm not just talking about the state of things.

I've been taking the trains in and out of this station for a few years now—enough to recognize when they'd changed, even if the change was small. The way this compartment looked, like the slumming hole for a pack of homeless weirdos, was definitely not how it used to be. The taxpayers wouldn't stand for this crap, not with the tax hikes and ticket prices we had to put up with. It was almost like something out of a movie, as if someone had thrown together an imitation of a "creepy train" based on an idea, a concept that already existed—

_Yeah, okay. Shut up and get moving._

Belts from overhead handrails were strewn about the floor and benches, along with newspapers that were too faded to read, and strange bottles that looked like bleach or cleaning detergent. As I approached the door that linked the train cars I made a list of potentially useful items around me should things get weird again—and by weird I mean if some strange abortion from hell comes wandering out to eat me. I wanted to believe that it couldn't happen on a train—how could they get in?—but I'm not good at being optimistic when there's little reason to be. Stranger things had happened to me so far, hadn't they? Didn't I just beat the crap out of some giant Freudian worm a half hour ago?And if _that _was possible, well it was possible for those _things _to find a way on the train. Or to already be here.

Right. Weapons. I probably wouldn't lug either a handrail strap or a bottle of bleach around with me forever, or however long I'd be stuck in this weirdness, but it'd probably by me some time or a small peace of mind. I hated that I even had to prepare myself for a situation like that—there should be no need, no need at all, to think what would be more effective when trying to avoid dying, shoving bleach in a monster's face or whipping it with a strap. These weren't fights I wanted to have, this wasn't a journey I'd wanted or even prepared myself to take. For Christ's sake I woke up this morning caring more about the lack of clothes to wear than a test of my spirit and will to live.

My fingers found the metal hold in the door and I pushed it open (these doors were always heavy for some reason), hurrying quickly across the small path and to the next car. The door clicked shut behind me, blocking out the squeaks and shrieks of the train as it moved... wherever it moved. I hoped it was to the station closest to my house, the one right outside the Hilltop building, but I've already explained my problem with such optimism.

Something was wrong here, too. The compartment was just as filthy and gross as the last, the walls grimier and the graffiti more illegible—though I caught the words _HOW LONG DOES IT WRITHE_? and didn't even want to think about what that meant—but it was different somehow. There was also one glaringly obvious similarity.

First, it was... darker in here than the last car. I don't know how it was, but it just was. The lights were still on overhead; the halogen pierced my eyes and made my head swim from momentary blindness. But it was as if the air or the atmosphere or the _presence _of the compartment were thicker somehow, veiled in shadow, like wisps of black fog that made everything seem just a touch more blurry and strange.

I don't get it either.

The second thing, the similarity, was that there was no one in this compartment either. It was just as abandoned as the last one. Before I'd gotten on board I noticed no one was in any of the cars I saw, but this hadn't bothered me too much—most people like to sit in the front-most cars of the train when it's late at night. But even then there were usually stragglers, drunks or heavy sleepers who were dotted here and there in the otherwise empty cars. So far it seemed like I was the only one on this thing.

This was starting to pile up to a mess of weirdness that I was so not happy to see.

Trying and failing to ignore the Banshee shrieks of my brain telling me I'd be better off avoiding creepy trains in creepy places from here on out, if I _made _it out, I walked further into the strange semi-darkness, my hand moving slowly towards where I'd stashed the handgun. It was an instinct I didn't know I'd developed, but was glad for it all the same. If I wasn't so convinced I'd find a way to shoot myself in the face from being so nervous I would've taken the gun out proper. I comforted myself by resting my first and middle fingers on the handle, now and then stretching one or the other out to find the trigger.

_Bzzrt, bzzrt!_ went the radio.

"Shit," I muttered, stopping dead where I stood, straining my eyes and ears to make out some sign of what was ahead. Just my luck, yeah, get stuck in a small train car with some _thing_. My left hand rose and flicked off the flashlight, hoping to buy myself some time, but that didn't help much. Now I _really _couldn't see anything.

I heard footsteps. I couldn't tell how far it was from me, but they were heavy and wet slaps like someone stomping on pavement after they get out of a swimming pool. Judging just by the way it walked this _thing_ sounded big, probably bigger than me. I thought of those messed up long armed things, the ones with the twisting, tube like heads and necks, and I really don't know how I didn't piss myself right then and there to be honest. It was probably my next thought that saved me from that, when I realized there was no way something that big could fit into a train car. But as that meant that this _thing _wasn't something I'd seen before it was a pretty useless comfort.

The radio trilled louder as the footsteps drew closer, my hand trembling as I pulled out my gun and steadied it straight ahead, wrapping both hands around the bottom as my finger slid over the trigger.

I could hear it now—low grunts that extended into moans, moans deep enough to rattle in my chest and make my already panicked heart panic just a tad more. The only thing worse than seeing a monster was hearing them.

Before I had time to prepare for anything else, the grunt rose to a cry and the next thing I knew something heavy and wet slammed into me, knocking me square in the chest. I screamed as I stumbled back, my arms failing, my hand still holding tight to the gun. That seemed to excite it because it came after me again, shoving against my stomach, trying to knock me to the ground. I batted at it uselessly with the fist of my free hand, my knuckles gliding over the slick skin, coming away wet and sticky. My stomach hurled and ached as I moved to my left, the backs of my knees bending against the bench bolted to the floor.

In the faint light of the car, I could just make out what this thing looked like. It was a head taller than me and armless, with long, bent legs that were covered in throbbing blue and red veins. Its trunk was likewise veiny, extending up the neck and to the strange fish-like head, coming to end in a large, bulbous eye that was trained on my face, staring at directly me. Could it even see?

The thing bent back, preparing to strike again. I was ready this time at least. I kicked out at its knees, the weakest looking point on its body, and was satisfied to hear a loud wet crunch as something in it snapped—did it even have bones? The thing bent again but forwards this time, lowering its head and trying to adjust to its handicap as the now useless leg made it tilt heavily to the wounded side.

I sidestepped to my left and spun, my back to the front of the compartment as I backed up carefully, putting a good distance between us but not far enough back so I couldn't see it clearly. I raised my gun again and aimed for a fraction of a second—the shot didn't land where I wanted it to, but it did make a hit where the shoulder should be.

It screamed—or it sounded like a scream. The thing didn't have a mouth so I had no idea how it could be making any noise unless it had vocal chords too, and the howl was muted, not having an opening to escape from. It lumbered towards me, groaning again, its wails deeper and oddly robotic, like it was repeating a phrase without conscious effort. I continued backing up and aimed for the center of its trunk, taking more time for this one. I closed my eyes as I pulled the trigger again, the gun's recoil making my elbows bend from the force. Still it didn't go down, not even with the bum leg and two bullets stuck inside it.

I fired again and again, trying to aim for the center, cursing when my shots went wild or smirking as they hit their mark.

It took five bullets to put the thing down, which was good timing as I needed to reload. It slammed against the floor of the car and made the benches shake. Moaning and grunting, its one good leg kicking out in spasms, the thing writhed on the floor just like the tiny cyclopses back in the mall. This must be its older brother or mother or something.

My boots were a mess after I finished stomping on its head, my heel sliding through the punctured skin and knocking off a large chunk. Blood pooled out from its wounds, growing thicker and wider, the smell of it making my nose wrinkle, my stomach beginning its now familiar churn.

Onto the next car I went, pausing before opening the door and looking through the frosted glass. Lucky for me the lights were on in this one, and the usual nothing and no one greeted me.

No, I was wrong. I frowned as the door shut behind me, staring at something painted on the floor about halfway in the car. The red paint almost seemed to glow and it looked fresh. As I approached I noticed it was a symbol of some kind, like an emblem or a design but it wasn't one I'd ever seen before. Circles, circles in a circle, with a trio of pictures between them and rune-like writing covering the gap between the outer and inner spheres.

I knelt and turned my head, studying it carefully. There didn't seem like a proper way to read it, no front or reversed face as far as I could tell. It fascinated me—the way it seemed to twinkle in the light, how it was so neat and carefully ordered despite the smears, as if someone's hands had moved further than they needed to shape the symbol. My fingers pressed lightly into the outer circle, barely grazing it, and I gasped as they made contact. It was _cold_, colder than I imagined it to be, like a snowbank that resisted the thaw. More than that, the minute I touched it my head started to throb, aching and horrible, like someone had slammed an ax directly in the top of my skull and cleaved my brain.

My head swam and pounded as I fell onto my back, my hands pulling at my hair, clawing at my face, my nails running down cheeks and chin to squeeze at my throat, gasping and screaming for air through the pain. I felt another throb but it wasn't from my head—it was in my stomach. No, near my heart. Now in my arms, spreading down to my fingers, a pulse like thousands of tiny, beating hearts. There it came again, the red all that red, red red red the nurse's sweater, red the bandages just minutes after being changed, red like the dress of the woman, stained and stuttering, falling back as she clutched at herself and screamed, red, my mother's lips, her cold smile, her yellowing teeth. Red, my hands after being clenched for so long around the edge of my desk, red the face of the boy who had moments before been laughing at me, throwing stones and words that hurt worse than anything, red, the strawberries my father had bought for me, my one indulgence, slipping between his lips and ripped as his teeth dug into the soft flesh.

It was just like when I ran into Claudia. The pain, the images, the throb that ran all over my body as if it weren't my own, and the ringing, a loud buzz like so many bees hovering, wings fluttering faster than sight could see, surrounding me.

_Snap out of it. Pull yourself together!_

I gritted my teeth and howled, my head twisting from side to side. Red, the strawberries, my father's hands, his mouth, how it spread into his smile, a smile he shared only with me. My father, dad, daddy, _daddy where are you? _A child's voice crying out against the static and the dark, terrified and alone, more alone than any child deserves to be, aching for the one thing that could protect her.

It was like being wrenched from the edge of a cliff I was teetering on. Just as suddenly the pain lifted, the throb in my head and body stopped, so many hearts silenced and the buzzing of wings and thoughts and agony now muted, far enough away so that I could start to function again.

It took me a while to calm myself down. Still the train moved on its journey, oblivious and uncaring for the torment of its sole passenger. My hands flexed at my sides and I lifted them gingerly, staring at my trembling fingers, at the stains on my right hand from when I'd touched the symbol. Rubbing my fingers together, spreading the red across the whorls of my fingerprints, it seemed less and less like paint the more I studied it, honing my mind to this oddity as my pulse slowed to its usual pace, my head gradually clearing.

This couldn't be paint. It wasn't all that sticky for one thing, and this stuff had a weird sap-like consistency to it. My fingers were starting to get stuck as the liquid dried and I spat on them, rubbing out the excess ink on my skirt and thighs to get rid of the stain.

I stood up, frowning again, steadying myself against a nearby pole as I got used to my own two feet again. I glared down at the symbol, at the now malicious-like glint to its coat, the strange circles and runes. Whatever this thing was, I didn't like it. I didn't like looking at it, I didn't like that it was here, and I sure as hell didn't want to step on or across it, not if touching it meant going through that pain again. I try not to be too superstitious, but this was just the sort of thing that looked like it came packaged with a curse to anyone who trespassed over it. And judging by what had just happened I'm pretty sure I was right to be wary.

Trouble was, if I wanted to get anywhere on this train I'd have to do just that. The fact that the train was moving despite being totally empty seemed a clear sign that someone else was on here besides me. I hadn't thought of it before because I'd been distracted—by graffiti, that monster, how gross the train cars were. Trains can't move by themselves—well, okay, they _can_ but there's always a driver at the front anyway, and even if this line was deserted except for myself and monsters, there still had to be a driver here.

Playing it safe, even if I was well past the point of having that do me any good, I edged very carefully around the symbol, glaring at it as I did so. Once I was clear of straying across it, I turned my back on the sucker and pretended it didn't exist—it was a delusion I took great comfort in, as long as it meant I could stay focused on putting one foot in front of the other and avoiding the horrors that were lurking ahead.

Of course, my new found determination to ignore the symbol and its effects on me did not stop my mind from wandering, trying to place some sense of familiarity to the world I was thrown in and didn't seem to be able to escape any time soon. The waking nightmare had increased not only in its grotesque scenery and threats, but its longevity—I had never been trapped inside one this long before. Part of me wondered if this was because I was getting older, if this is what I had to look forward to with each passing year... longer and longer spurts of time in my own personal hell, constructed out of the world around me, infected by things that had no place in the mind of anyone but Lovecraft—or a paranoid schizophrenic. Or maybe a really creative art school student.

As long as my mind was playing the not-here-as-long-as-it's-safe-to-think-so game, I began to compare what I saw on the train and its endless series of dark, abandoned cars to things in reality—_normal_ things, like... like the aisle between pews in church. I'd never been inside one personally, but I'd seen photographs of them and paid attention when they'd shown up in movies; I'd read descriptions about them in books well enough to know the basic layout, and that was enough to alert me that the set up was pretty standard. All the pews in a line facing the dais at the front, maybe the mangled body of the savior on display for them all to enjoy and feel guilty about.

But another church came to mind—another thought, something different... like a memory prodding through the image my thoughts constructed as if testing my strength, insisting that I take notice of its existence, too. There was the memory of another church lurking in my mind, different than the usual ones, with the pews facing the aisle, facing each other—facing whoever was walking between them to the trio of portraits in the front, headed towards the altar, towards the slit in the floor.

That made no sense. I didn't even have to let the voices in my thoughts argue about that one. It plain made no sense, and to boot it sounded like the setting of a lame B-movie about cults. _No matter how bad things look right now_, I vowed to myself, willing my resolve to stay strong, _they definitely will not sink _that _low._

I shoved yet another door open and slid inside the next car, glancing around at the surprising amount of light in _this _part. Nothing else was in the car with me, thankfully—not that it would have any place to hide—but the light made me cautious and unsure. What I would normally be grateful for instead made me suspicious, which was just a mark of how messed up this place was—and how messed up it was making _me_. Hesitantly I walked forward, glancing around, half expecting something to pop out and call my bluff, when the brakes on the train shrieked and slammed. The car rattled as I was thrown to the floor, letting go of my gun to allow my hands to break my fall. My knees, sore from all the running and my various less graceful moments, became further scuffed and scraped, and my wrists were sore from the unexpected task of supporting part of my weight.

Pushing myself to my feet, I stooped to pick up my gun and brush off some of the dirt that settled on it. As I did so, I looked at the platform outside.

I tried not to feel disappointed. Really, what the hell had I expected? To see my stop outside? To find things back to the way they used to be, the way I _wanted _them to be? The platform outside was nearly impossible to see, wreathed in so much shadow and grime, that if I wanted to be sure where I was, I'd have to venture outside and look properly. I didn't linger long on how much I didn't want to do this—there was no use resisting. No good would come of that, and I didn't want to find out what would happen to me if I stayed put and waited in _this_ place. Hell, I didn't even know where I _was_.

As I approached the doors that opened to the outside, I took a quick glance into the glass of the door that should have led to the driver's compartment—only there wasn't any. No driver, no compartment, nothing but the faint red lights of the tunnel ahead and the gleam of metal tracks winding into the shadows. I chewed on the inside of my cheek to stop from letting out a hollow, frightened laugh. For all I knew it would rise up into a scream.

Once I was outside the train, I took a glance at my surroundings. Graffiti-covered wall, check. Gross floor, check. Ominous symbol—yep, there again. Oh, and there was a door far to my left, the only way out of this little corner of bizarroworld. I flipped off the symbol as I trotted past, headed towards that one and only door.

A long brick passage greeted me on the other side. Overhead lamps glowed in a sort of friendly way, or maybe I was just projecting some of my hopes into this world. It lip up the tunnel ahead, eliminating all chances of shadows and the creeps that lurked in them. There was nothing at all but the path, the walls, the lights, and the stairs I had to walk down to reach the way out. I took a few deep, calming breaths, and began to descend.

Silence. Silence all around me, except for the sound of my boots clomping against the ground. Silence and nothing else, which made me breathe easier, made the knots in my shoulders relax. I relished these moments of solace, not knowing when or if they'd come again, taking my time as I walked down the corridor. I glanced back every now and then just to make sure nothing was following me, to make sure that the lights weren't going out, inviting something unspeakably horrible to emerge from the created darkness. No, nothing. I almost smiled. If I knew who to thank, I'd have sung their praises on high.

My mind started to wander again. I certainly had the time, considering the length of the hallway—it stretched far, far ahead, in a series of lamps and the same pattern of brick, the same paved, even floor. I could see what looked like another set of stairs on the other side so I continued moving towards them, using them as my guiding light, knowing at least that there _was _another side to my wandering, that there _was _a way to escape. There was a story about a descent, about a man on a journey—what was it?

A myth, I think. Not sure where from or what the guy's name was (I was a little distracted okay?), but I knew he was one of the romantic, absolutely loyal types. I knew the love of his life had died tragically, but he wouldn't let death keep them apart. Instead of taking the Romeo way out though, he had gone right down into the underworld to meet the king and queen of hell to bargain for his love's soul. He was offering a trade—if he could convince them to feel some emotion, if he could move their hearts, then they'd have to restore part of his.

The journey is what interested me the most, that someone would willingly endure the surely terrifying task of leaving the world of the living to travel down... down... down into the place where the dead tread. Where had his courage come from, and what made him think such a choice was at all worth it? Love, yeah, I got that part covered—but what sort of love could be powerful enough to make a person look into the world of the dead and gone and _go there_, _willingly_, and risk his life talking to its rulers? I mean, if the guy was just interested in sex or lust he could have settled on some girl who wasn't six leagues under. Clearly this was about something more, something deeper.

I'd never known love personally. Never really cared about it that much, either. I was fine on my own and happy with my friends and didn't see a need to complicate that. My dad was neither overprotective or pushy about my apparent lack of dating—part of him was probably _grateful_ for the excuse not to delve into the deeper, less comforting aspects of a teenage girl's life. Thanks to this, the love between a man and a woman didn't really register as anything I could understand. But love for a friend, for family? That I got completely.

Though I'd never confided in any friend about the full details of my bizarre life story—waking nightmares, constant moves, a dad with an almost crippling disdain pertaining to All Things Organized Faith—I had trusted them entirely, had given my heart to them without hesitation. They were my ways out of the world in my mind, the nightmares that lurked awake or asleep, the confusion and terror that had followed me since my childhood up until this moment, right now, walking in this endless hallway. If any of my friends were hurt—trapped—taken somewhere, lost in this damned world, I would go through anything to get them out. I'd kill whatever—whoever(!)—stood between them and me, pulling them along or putting them on my damn back if I had to.

And if it was my father...

If I thought the bloodlust and cruelty that coursed through me all those times I fought monsters was bad—if I thought _that _was as ruthless and out of control as I could get—it would be nothing, _absolutely nothing_, to the moment my dad was in danger. I wasn't a pampered, spoiled brat. I wasn't demanding or possessive of him. I just knew that there wasn't a single thing on this goddamn earth—be it man or beast—that could stop me from keeping him safe. And may someone else's god have mercy on anyone who tried to hurt him, because I sure wouldn't.

As if in response to these thoughts and wanting to remind me that dammit, I couldn't ignore it no matter how deep in a daydream I sunk myself, a loud, metallic whine echoed throughout the passageway. I couldn't tell from where it came, or even what the source of the noise was—it seemed to emanate from the very air itself, or perhaps in the place _inside_ the walls, the places on the other side that I couldn't see. It sounded... it sounded like the world was shifting, like I was inside a little wind-up maze whose paths could shift from normal to hellish with one sadistic turn of a wheel controlled by a man (wasn't it always a man?) who had his own plans, a man who had his own concerns in mind, and they didn't involve his victim one bit.

If the world around me _was _shifting, I wanted to make sure whatever place I found next would be far, far away from any grinding gears or nightmarish plagues. I wanted to find some semblance of normalcy, and find it _fast_. It was this thought that made my steps move quicker, this thought that made my trek down the tunnel seem shorter, narrowing the long, seemingly endless passage into one that became quite easy to pass. I looked back over the path I'd traveled and actually laughed to see that the tunnel had shrunk behind me. What originally looked like a four and a half mile tunnel when I first descended the stairs now looked nothing more than a four and a half minute hallway.

_Definitely a missed stop on the logic train_.

Ascending the second staircase to a nondescript door, I twisted the knob and pushed my way through to the room on the other side. It looked like a sewer, but mercifully did not smell like one, and after I climbed another level of metal stairs, the only way out appeared to be a long, rusty ladder leading up to the surface.

"Sure hope _you're_ more stable than the last one," I told the rungs as I slipped my hands around the sides and began to climb, training my ears to focus carefully on any sound of shrieks or hint that the ladder would collapse beneath me. Luck was on my side at the time, but that didn't put me at ease—luck was fickle, luck was moody. Luck was the rug that could be pulled out from under your feet at any second and leave you breathless, sprawled on your back and bruised.

Luck was also really, really weird, because as She would have it, once I was on the surface again, trapped inside a walled off (for fumigation?) area surrounding office building, my memory clicked back to life. I _knew _this place—Tom's little sister took ballet lessons here. Katy and I would stop by sometimes to keep her company, or to reminisce—though Katy had much more fond memories of the dance than I ever did. My therapist was also here. This building was close to home, walking distance even.

Home. I couldn't hide my joy at the word, at the thought. I grinned, I couldn't _stop_ grinning. I must have looked crazy, if there was anyone around to appreciate the sight of me smiling like a Stepford wife as I rushed into the double doors of the building, completely ignoring the once more ominous surroundings I'd charged into. I didn't care if I'd have to jump off the roof or hike it out a window (again)—I was going to get home.

The only door open was one that led to yet another ascent of stairs—and all the floors doors were locked shut, notices of a cave in alerting me to danger. This took a bit of the cheer out of my mind as I stopped to wonder when the hell _this _happened. Certainly not recently—but then again, could I have been gone longer than I thought? If my theory about the waking nightmare I'd experienced after meeting Katy turned out to be true, then maybe I couldn't only go backward in time but _forward_ as well. And what if... what if I hadn't been gone hours, but days, even—weeks?

Or maybe it was a lie. Maybe this place was playing tricks on me in an even more subtle, cruel way. As if the monsters and the pain and the constant fear of my life ending in some brutal, comical way weren't bad enough, now it had to decide to mess with my head, to take what _should _be acceptable, memorable features of my world—_my _world, not a distortion of it—and add just a few confusions here and there to make me stop and question everything. I couldn't even begin to imagine the genius, or psychosis, responsible for such a decision just like I couldn't imagine how I'd try to be _normal _after all of this once I saw my dad again.

I wouldn't know until I got home. I would have to keep all these concerns and fears out of my mind until then.

The only door that allowed admittance was on the fifth floor, and after a check of the elevator proved that it was definitely not in service, I continued down the hall to yet another door and the room hidden beyond—but this, too, looked like a ghastly wreck of its former self. Parts of the wall had been torn away, wiring and metal framework exposed like the skeleton inside a massive creature, and there were even small things here and there to show that someone had made this place into their home. Not a nice one by the smell of it, but nice enough to survive. Part of the floor had collapsed away, opening into darkness. I peered over the edge, holding my flashlight down and turning it this way and that, trying to make out any details of the room below. All I could tell was that it'd be a big drop and I definitely didn't want to sprain or break anything.

My only chance was the mattress in the room—the gross, filthy mattress that looked like it should have been stored away in the evidence room of a police department. I sighed and stowed my gun away, shoved my flashlight into my breast pocket, and crouched down to tug at the mattress. I tried not to think what it was covered in or what I was possibly touching. I'd already vowed to take a long, scouring shower once I got back home.

I'm not sure what went wrong. I've gone over this part in my head dozens of times since the event itself, but nothing makes sense to me. Nothing emerges in a pattern that makes me feel comforted or secure in its reason. It was as if the gears of the world shifted again, only this time without the metallic shriek to signify the occurrence, and at one moment I was stable, balanced, crouched on the ground—and another I was toppling into the hole, down into the blackness of the floor below, where I cracked my head on something hard, blurring my vision into a smear of red and deep bruise blue. Down again I went, down into the haze of a pained, temporary sleep... down...

_Down... down... and soon Alice began to talk to herself. Oh, Dinah. If only you were here with me._


End file.
